


The Architect of Solitude

by hitlikehammers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, BAMF!John, Established Relationship, Fake Character Death, Happy Ending, M/M, Reunion Sex, Sexual Content, The Reichenbach Fall Redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 91,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the ninth year of John Watson’s life, he learned a magic trick, and he starred in a play.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The Fall is just an act, just a magic trick in the end—a necessary deception, a desperate sort of sham. It's sleight of hand to save lives and keep hearts unbroken. And it was all John's idea.</p><p>And that changes <i>everything</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: Thirty Years Prior

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to the utterly incomparable [](http://speak-me-fair)[**speak_me_fair**](http://speak-me-fair) for betaing and Britpicking like a star. Title credit to [Georg Trakl](http://www.kansas.com/2012/06/10/2366439/the-architect-of-stillness.html).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the ninth year of John Watson’s life, he learned a magic trick, and he starred in a play.

In the ninth year of John Watson’s life, he learned a magic trick, and he starred in a play.

There were other things too, of course. He played a mediocre scrum-half in the under-11s. He failed a maths exam because he couldn’t remember how to make fractions. He fractured his right tibia. He kissed a girl with ginger plaits and ice cream on her lip. He cried at his grandfather’s funeral.

But the important thing—in the moment and in retrospect alike, which is the irony, really, the beauty of it, because how often is a thing wondrous as it happens, so significant that it lights the world in colour, but then it stays until it lends hue to the madness, the darkness, and saves your soul when the world reaches long and does its damnedest to break you in two: the _important_ thing is that at the age of nine, John Hamish Watson mastered legerdemain, simple sleight of hand—just a reassignment of attention, a farce: harmless, good-natured deceit—and he played the Angel Gabriel in the Nativity play. The important thing is that he remembers these happenings, these experiences, keeps them close through the years as he learns to not merely feel, not simply to convey but to _exude_ a certain sympathy, a confidence that shines through the exhaustion of his medical training; as he learns to assume the role he needs to fill, to wear the trappings until he fits them, to make believe until he _becomes_ ; as he adapts innocuous trickery into strategy, into misdirection on the battlefield as a soldier and careful, efficient work as a physician, as a medic. 

The important thing is that John Watson learns to sham when he needs to, wields deception when he must, and that he doesn’t forget. 

He doesn’t forget, and because of this—because he remembers how to smile when he’s aching, remembers that for every pledge there is a turn, and something later, something sweeter, something more; he doesn’t forget, and while he can’t quite save his heart from breaking (and maybe that was inevitable, like this—with them), while it still cracks and shatters in the end, he still keeps it beating: keeps the pieces of it safe until softer hands can fit the shapes back into place; until wholeness finds its way back home and John can breathe again, can close his eyes without fearing what awaits him in the dark. 

Because in the ninth year of John Watson’s life, he learned a magic trick, and he starred in a play. 

And thirty years later, imitation and illusion and a cast iron will—it’s those simple things, those childhood whims: it’s that persistent, well-honed _innocence_ that changes everything, that keeps hearts from burning, from giving out before the fall. And it works, beyond all probability, beyond all hope and indulgence, beyond all reason, it _works_.

At first.


	2. Fourteen Hours Prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He said he would burn me,” Sherlock exhales, only halfway; “I can’t let him,” Sherlock hisses, pleads, and John breaks with it in the exact moment that he steals himself with the very same vow: “I _won’t_.”

The night’s boundless, in its way: inky and thick, and the street-lamps refract on the viscous nothing that takes up space in the air, that settles wrong, too heavy in John’s lungs; makes his chest ache with the pressure it puts on the ventricles, the veins.

The night is dense with purpose and foreboding, pulsing with the weight in his chest. John could shake his head, could squint his eyes until light dotted the lids, until he could read the negatives of his own blood coursing hot beneath the chill: he could breathe in air and call it right until sunrise, but he knows it won’t help.

He can’t hear anything but those words, all caught in his throat and his pulse and lost, suspended lazily, mocking in the viscid fog: the impossible, unimaginable, unsubstantiated-certain promise of destruction and devastation and the end of all he knows.

_No,_ lobs the voice on a breeze of mucous and hate; _On my own._

John shivers, and he can smell exhaust fumes, can imagine subtle lines from the taxi’s tire treads on the dusk-damp street. He’s lightheaded, dizzy: there’s not enough air.

There’s only one place to go.

He runs.

_______________________________

This time of night, the Diogenes is quiet in a rather different way. Bereft; lonely.

It makes the subtle buzz of light and noise that builds, swells and leeches out from the back rooms, from Mycroft’s personal offices all the more compelling, all the more out of place as John slows his frantic pace, feels the energy in him, the need to unleash hate and blame start to ebb as the sounds trail, rise and crash with so much feeling. 

He pauses on the opposite side of a very heavy, very thick door made of solid walnut, if John’s reading the wood-grain, the colour just right, just as Sherlock’s shown him. The door itself is closed, and John can hear tides of feeling building and tearing somewhere off behind it, and he doesn’t care, not in the moment; not when Mycroft is the cause of all of this, not when John can tell, can _feel_ that something’s gone horribly wrong, may yet go more wrong still—not when Sherlock had frozen and strode away, shut him out.

John opens the door.

The room that John is familiar with, the chair he normally sits in: it’s dimly lit but wholly empty. The only sign of life to be had is a perspiring glass of whiskey with ice. John happens to know that Mycroft prefers his drinks straight, and wonders at the collecting beads of moisture on the desk against the windows.

“Be reasonable,” the noises from before, Mycroft’s clipped tones: they’re words now, clear if a bit distant, a bit far. John turns toward the corner of the room, the far wall where there’s only wooden panelling: ordinary, save for the sliver of light shining where the moulding doesn’t quite align, where the words are coming through the wall at the place where it opens, secret—unsecured, closed in haste, careless. 

A hidden room. How fucking typical. 

John moves to pursue his quarry, the object of his burning disdain, the indirect catalyst for his rage and his fear in the moment—damn the consequences—and he’s close, he’s about to push straight in and demand answers, demand apologies and remorse, contrition, _something_ , when a voice stops him dead in his tracks: unbalanced.

“Reasonable?” The voice is the one that echoes, that always sings in John’s blood, the conductor to his chorus; just hearing Sherlock’s changeable tones, all understated heat and vibratory passion, it arrests John where he stands.

“Reason? The time has passed for _reason_ , brother.” It’s almost a snarl, but not quite; it’s caught on something, it can’t curl like it ought to: it’s hitched up on a snare that’s holding it, that’s sending it spinning off wrong, out of control. 

“I cannot fall back on reason, simple, static, quantifiable reason when the man with a price on my head has long abandoned all logic, all sanity. We are living in a brave new world, Mycroft, and Jim Moriarty has built the towers, he’s scaled the walls, he has rewritten our constructs.” Sherlock pauses, but John listens; there’s no inhale, no sigh of air, it’s just a silence in which John’s heart thuds loud, flat and wet and useless, and Sherlock is suspended somewhere, hidden behind the wall. 

“He is the architect of madness, the very antithesis of reason, and I may as well walk into the path of an oncoming car, I should use myself for target practice instead of the wall.” There’s a frantic edge to Sherlock’s voice, now; like Dartmoor but deeper, more shaken, more desperate, as if the unthinkable is seen clearly and yet it’s possible, suddenly, and John’s frozen by it, the maniacal edge of real torment in Sherlock’s voice, laced against his words, a poison that would drive any one of them to madness, to tears: to a sorrowful rage that took no prisoners and skinned every wretched soul alive.

“I might as well leap from the bloody roof of Bart's this instant if you’re going to insist on reason where it’s left, where it’s gone, because there is no reason here!” Sherlock is bordering on hysterics, and John’s never heard this from him before, has never dreamt of this level of unravelling from his friend, his partner, the niggling splinter in his heart, wedged in the left atrium so that as long as John is living, he cannot deny the way that Sherlock holds him, keeps him, has infiltrated his system, stroked his very cells.

It’s wrong, that sound, this loss of control, and it chills John’s blood just to hear it, makes him desperate to move and to see and to soothe, if he can.

That prospect—the _if_ , the possibility of _can’t_ ; John thinks maybe that’s what keeps him still.

“There is no _reason_ ,” Sherlock finally speaks, repeats: his voice a whisper now: destroyed, crumbled and scattered to the wind, buried beneath silt and the waves of the ocean far away. “There is vengeance and the cleverest, cruellest, most twisted of games at work, and if Moriarty thinks that I’m a pawn then I am doomed, but worse, if he thinks that I’m the King then he will, he’ll have to, he’ll need,” Sherlock’s coming undone, the seams of him unthreading and John knows, John _knows_ that he’ll fall and just as surely, just as certain, John knows that he’s the one who will catch Sherlock, that he needs to, and he’s moving, he’s stepping forward toward the small tell of light in the wood—

“Stop,” Mycroft breaks in, and his tone is new, as well: sincere, gentle and yet firm, the kind of steady insistence that’s only ever borne of love. “You’re shaking,” he intones, low and almost melodic, practiced in its way: “you need to breathe.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice is so strained, so wrecked, and John aches for him. “I,” he starts again, feeble, his voice choked around something bigger, something bolder than a sob.

“ _John_ ,” and John straightens, his muscles tightening and his pulse surging when he hears his own name in that tone, drenched through with so much need; it kills him from the core as it fills him with warmth beneath the ribs, all at once. “He’s—” 

John feels his knees try to give out on him when he hears Sherlock’s breath catch, his voice break; when he hears the cadence of overwrought lungs, of the intake of air so emotionally charged that John feels dizzy, spent just listening, just feeling the amorphous echo of it tear through his chest.

“I know,” Mycroft says, again so careful, so subtle and sympathetic, and yet those words are filled with a simple understanding, a comprehension of the gravity and the need and all the things that John wants, that John dares to read in the touches and the looks, in the words and the way that John moves with Sherlock, the way they read each other and exist in a singular orbit. Mycroft’s voice encompasses an acknowledgement, a respect for all the things that John still can’t name, not yet, and John can’t help but wonder at it, can’t help but wonder at the things he has yet to uncover about the man he shares his life with, about the people that man had shared his own life with, before; shares in his own way, still.

“We have to leave,” Sherlock says, clears his throat, breathes in shakily as he makes, forces his words to be steady if they can’t be sharp. John feels the fight creep into his bones, a lance of fear running fingertips up his spine: _we_ , and John thinks he knows, wants to hope, but what if, what _if_ —

“I’ll do what I can,” Mycroft tells him: undertones and resignation and resolution all at once; “You know that I will.”

An impossibly long rush of breath—lungs overfull, burning with the release of it—snakes its way through the crack where John is standing, breathless himself. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock exhales, his voice too small and soft to hold any feeling, but the smallness and the softness speak volumes on their own.

“This is _madness_ ,” Mycroft says after a moment that stretches too long, that makes the wall feel thicker and the space feel smaller, and John is taken with the need to reveal himself, the need to barge in and add his voice, his presence; to offer support and a pair of fresh eyes, because it’s starting to come together, the things that Sherlock’s saying, the data they already have on Moriarty, the comments and the way that Sherlock’s talking, the fear in him, the feeling: things that John’s only seen in him in their flat, in their bed, in the moments where they felt closer than atoms comprising molecules, in the seconds where they feared above all else the irrevocable loss of the only thing worth keeping.

“What other choice do we have?” Sherlock asks; there’s impatience in his pitch but not disdain. “He’ll want me dead, I am sure of that.”

“And John?” Mycroft asks, a little wary; John holds his breath and waits.

“I can,” Sherlock breaks off, coughs to cover his faltering, but even without seeing, John knows he’s on his last legs, that he’s fortifying himself on his own, and John made a promise, made a pact within himself when they started this, when it all began, that never again, for as long as John was living, would Sherlock Holmes be left to wall his own heart away. Not ever.

Not again.

“I can only imagine the danger, the consequences,” Sherlock’s quiet once more, and John’s eyes are stinging as he reads between the lines, as he sees the last pieces coalesce and come together, as implications turn to potentialities and a whole map of the future as it leads from the past starts to form behind his eyelids. “I don’t want to think of what might happen to him, regardless of my survival, or demise.”

John’s mind races, then, in the silence that follows; turns scenarios over in double-time, his focus split between the images in his head and the voice that tugs at his heart, changes his rhythms and shapes the direction of his thoughts, moulds them and churns them anew.

“He,” Sherlock distracts him with the trembling, the thin nature of his voice when he starts, fails; tries again.

“He said he would burn me,” Sherlock exhales, only halfway; “burn the,” and he doesn’t have to finish: John remembers that night, John remembers it in the way his own body tenses, tightens and his shoulders feel heavy, burdened; the way his chest burns in a dangerous way, a hateful way: not like the joyous strain of the chase, or the stolen beats that Sherlock takes with his lips against John’s; not the breathlessness when Sherlock collapses against him, spent, but something harsh instead. Something lethal. 

“I can’t let him,” Sherlock hisses, pleads, and John breaks with it in the exact moment that he steals himself with the very same vow: “I _won’t_.”

“Whatever you need that it is in my power to provide,” Mycroft says, more weary now than anything; “you have it.” 

There’s movement, and there’s breathing, heavy; John hears that and processes it, but he gives it just a fraction of his attention because his mind is occupied, figuring angles and assessing necessary risks, statistics and prospects and collateral damage, devising stratagems and John’s blood is coursing heavy and quick through his veins, his heart mechanical, methodical as he measures possibility over impossibility and the strength of human will, the breadth of affection: the depth of the feelings fluttering, flowing beneath his skin. 

“But will it be enough, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, fervent, concerned, just this side of doubting.

But the human will can be unbreakable; John’s seen it.

“Will it ever be _enough_?”

And the human heart can contain all things, if it needs to; if it _wants_.

“It won’t,” John answers aloud, makes himself known; Mycroft turns sharply to look at him, but Sherlock, Sherlock jumps, starts so violently that his chest heaves, visible from where John stands at a distance before he crosses it, before he goes to Sherlock without hesitation and moulds a palm to his jawline, strokes a thumb across the cut of his cheekbone, just below the bruised hollow of his eye.

“No, it won’t.”

“It has to be something else,” John says, tone calculated, certain: the voice of command. “Something reckless. Something unconscionable. Something brilliant, destructive.”

Sherlock’s eyes are on him, swimming, vacillating between colours and focus, rippling and bright; John pulls back and slips his hands into his pockets, pinches the fabric until he can feel the cut of his fingernails, can saw holes through cotton lining and draw blood before he speaks, as soft and sure as he can manage, as he can stand:

“It has to be something unthinkable. Something that might just kill us all, in kind.”


	3. Ten Hours Prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’ll come for you, he’ll take you to reduce me, to burn me, so that he can have just the ashes, the shell of what I am, closer to what I was,” Sherlock sucks in air like a challenge, a war between his lungs. “Efficient, and yet,” Sherlock’s chest heaves, rattles, deflates: he chokes on something thicker than tears as the words tumble out: “so very empty.”

Their flat has never felt so silent, so unsteady. It’s perched upon a ledge, precarious, and the rise and fall of John’s chest is the only thing that’s measured, constant—his heart rattles underneath but his collar hides the evidence. His knuckles are white where they clench the arms of the chair—not his chair, Sherlock’s, and he breathes in deep for the scent. He wonders how long it will last once the man himself is gone. 

John listens to the echo of his pulse in the stillness. He aches for the rustle of Sherlock’s dressing gown, his clanking in the kitchen, the sizzle that precedes an explosion when he runs an experiment more “successful” than most. John has to swallow the tightness, the burn in his throat that rises, sears when he thinks of what he’s done, what he’s set into motion: how he’s asked them both to give so much; how he can’t be sure it will even work.

He bites down hard on his lip, on the tip of his tongue until the pain brings him back to himself. He can’t think like that.

It’s too late to turn back now.

There’s a pressure building behind his eyes, inside his ribs: John clenches his teeth around the dry skin at his knuckles and closes his eyes. He needs a distraction, he needs voices in his head and courses of action plotted bright behind his eyes to drown out his hollow breaths, his pounding heart.

He runs through everything, one more time.

_______________________________

 

“You said the roof,” John mutters, distracted, lets the concept loll through his mind, traverse his neural pathways. He waits for connections to spark from the friction, the frantic jump from information to enlightenment to action. “Leaping from the roof.”

“As a means of illustrating the absurdity of the idea, John, for god’s sake!” Sherlock snarls, impatient, but there’s a wideness, a depth and darkness to his pupils that betrays his anger for what it really is: something flayed-out and depthless and drenched, poised to snap.

“Public,” John nods to himself. “Familiar terrain.” He makes deliberate eye contact with Sherlock, lets himself commit to this with his eyes open and his pulse steady, sure: rapid. Ready. “We’d have the advantage.” 

Sherlock blinks slowly, exaggerated, unseeing. John watches the way his throat works and focuses on the expansion of his lungs, the intake of air, the narrowing of his consciousness to the point of impact, the task at hand. He’s trained for this. He knows this place, this churning tide within his gut. 

“What on earth are you suggesting?” Sherlock finally asks him, voice stoic, face blank: a plaster cast of his cheekbones, his facial muscles, his mandible, the sink of each orbit; a gypsotheque, a blotted masterpiece, and John misses the colours, misses the feelings that consume him when he gazes upon that singular sight.

He mourns them for the moment, and hopes that this, what he’s about to say, what he’s about to _do_ ; he hopes it will keep the monochrome alive, keep breath and blood inside the blacks and greys so that a time might come, a sun might rise, a mouth might press to suck the gradients, to paint the shades back in.

His mouth.

Some day. 

“A fall,” John states it, gives it the authority that it deserves because he’d heard Sherlock’s fears as he spoke to his brother, he had seen the way that even Mycroft had looked shaken when he’d taken his leave; John had read their dire predicament in the line of Sherlock’s spine, the tension in his shoulders, the way he hasn’t touched John yet, the way he keeps a wide berth between their flesh. 

John’s gone through contingencies and counterstrikes and requital and the endless escalation; John’s breathed chlorine and remembers that Semtex wrapped around his chest didn’t feel near as heavy as the promise of what awaits if they do nothing—perhaps worse, if they flee, if they tempt fate and beg the Reaper to follow, to come for them, to take the bait and gain with every step, every hesitation, every wrong turn.

This is their best shot.

“Deception of the surest sort,” John elaborates, underscores. “Visual confirmation. An illusion,” he trails off, loses himself in his mind for a moment pondering logistics, mapping circulation: raising the dead. Sherlock merely stares, the plaster holding but too stiff now, too hard. It won’t sustain the blow John is prepared to deliver, and John is grateful for it. 

He’s grateful, because if it’s truly come to this, if they’re going to go through with it, then John doesn’t want the statue, the pretend machine. He wants the softness that connects all the sharp edges, the give between the take: he wants the man he loves, the man he needs, for one more night.

God, please, one more; not one _last_.

“You think he’ll target those closest to you.”

“I know that he will,” Sherlock confirms, tone sharp, voice tight, and John can see the twitch of muscles in his jaw, too strained; the guileless pulse that betrays him at the throat—fissures in the surface, cracks inside the mask. “Burn the heart.”

“I’ll go ahead and assume I’m near the top of that list,” John says, and tries not to dwell on the trill of uncertainty that gets caught up, teasing his arteries like a tickle or a scream.

The intensity of Sherlock’s glare, the vulnerability behind the offence, the indignation, the rage: it sends John’s nerves on edge, shrivels something in his vessels as it swells wretchedly, gorgeously within his chest.

John needn’t have worried.

“Right,” he nods brusquely, and notes that Sherlock’s closer to him, now, but still won’t touch. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Probable.”

“Lestrade?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock inclines his head, tilts it at an angle before revising. “Likely.”

“Mycroft?”

“No.” The answer is immediate, almost hostile, but there’s no venom, only heat. “Not even Moriarty would be foolish enough to come for my brother. Not twice.”

“So,” John sucks in a deep breath, lets the air linger, burn a bit in his lungs as his chest expands, as his centre of gravity shifts for an instant before he reorients, breathes out. “Coercion. A gamble, a trade. Yes?”

Sherlock’s eyes are narrowed, his brow tense; he’s unsure of John, of where he’s taking this, of what he’s edging toward, and John has learned over their months together that Sherlock despises few things more than when he’s uncertain of what he holds most dear.

“I would imagine so,” Sherlock finally deigns to give: words measured, tone taut.

“Your life,” John expands, swallows the thickness, the dryness in his throat that gathers when he says the words, refuses to process the concept, the strychnine-sting of the _idea_. “Your reputation. In exchange for your friends. Your family.”

“My soul,” Sherlock whispers, barely breathes it as he meets John’s eyes, locks gazes for a fraction of a moment, the echo of a heartbeat before Sherlock tears his glance away, leaves only residue and the too-heavy huff of his breath. It cuts through John like the sharp crest at high tide, like gunpowder on broken skin—shivers and sparks fragile, unforgiving at the base of his throat, the backs of his eyes, and John can’t think too hard before he says this; he can’t second guess his own ability to survive what he’s about to propose when the alternative is unthinkable: terminal.

He cannot think before the words come out, so he doesn’t. 

“You’ll give it,” John says, steady, soft, and he means so much more than a fall, than a life, than a heart or a love or an end. “You’ll give it, for everyone to see.”

“I will do no such thing,” Sherlock rebuffs, scoffs, but John can read the line of his profile, the way his right thumb and forefinger bundle around the lengths of his fingers on the left; nervous. 

“This is asinine, John,” Sherlock’s tone turns cold, sharp, vicious, and that’s another tell: grasping, lashing, losing. It breaks John a little bit, tiny fractures at the limbs to know he’s doing this, that he’s dismantling his partner so, but it’s worth it. He can read Sherlock now as thoroughly, as clearly as Sherlock can read everyone else. Turnabout’s fair play, John suspects, especially when it’s going to save the bastard’s life.

“You’ve had your moment, you’ve said your piece.” Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal, a flick of the wrist as he turns his face from John’s line of sight; smart. He knows his eyes give him away when someone knows what to look for. And John, of course; John knows.

“Mycroft’s people will have already started gathering our things from Baker Street,” Sherlock speaks to the opposite wall. “We’ll leave before dawn.”

John lets his eyes drift closed as he heaves a deep sigh, tearing at roots and shifting the crust of an earth all his own. He tries not to wonder what might have happened, how this conversation may have gone; whether this conversation would have occurred at all, had their relationship never changed, had John kept chasing skirts and Sherlock had remained married to his work. He tries not to dwell on the things that Sherlock may have done, the ways that Sherlock may have gone about dealing with a madman after his head, his heart.

John tries not to choke on the painful, pressing, vivid possibilities, the lengths to which a Sherlock in love—because Sherlock had confessed it, had breathed low into the hollow of John’s throat that the fascination that had started with the cabbie had blossomed, unforgiving, into something vital and consuming at the pool, something Sherlock couldn’t translate, something that clenched around his lungs too tight; John tries not to let himself get lost in the unthinkable potential routes of a man so overrun with feelings, untethered.

He tries not to let his mind live out those scenarios, those alternate worlds where they kept separate rooms, separate beds, separate breaths in the morning. Where John didn’t taste Sherlock’s flavour at the rim of his morning cuppa, because Sherlock had already stolen a sip.

He tries. It’s a struggle.

“No.” John ducks around Sherlock’s frame and stands in front of him, reaching out to still his face from turning, from hiding again. “We won’t.”

Sherlock moves to protest, mouth open with justifications, demands, insults, but John’s fingers slip to rest on Sherlock’s lips, to shush him and Sherlock’s eyes grow wider still, their colour an otherworldly, white-washed jade in the low light, in the throes of what’s coming for them, what’s falling down around them. John strokes the line of Sherlock’s jaw with the pad of his thumb and relishes, saves the flutter of Sherlock’s lashes for the days to come.

“You don’t believe that running’s a good idea. You don’t believe it any more than I do,” John tells him, doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to. “I can see it.” He waits until Sherlock’s eyes open and meet his again before he forces a smile: tight, but there. “I know you, Sherlock. You forget how well I do.”

“No,” Sherlock exhales, and John feels it hit the line of his throat, feels the breath of it lap at the pulse in his neck. “No, I don’t forget.”

In that moment, John feels inundated, feel drenched and consumed with memories and fears, with the way things are and the way things were and what he has and what he’ll lose, and it takes all the strength he possesses not to be ill then and there; not to run like a coward with Sherlock’s hand in his, and let the bullets take them out together, let them fall and fade as one.

But John wants more than that. He needs more than that. He needs Sherlock, he needs his heart unburned, undying. 

He _needs_ ; and so he stands his ground, but only just.

“No harm would come to you,” Sherlock fills John's tortured silence. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

The vow, of course, is passionate but porous, faint for all that John knows Sherlock would tear the world down to make it right; for all that the world would tear and the both of them with it—and that’s why they can’t run. Because what John wants might break them, but between them both, there’s been so much breaking, so much worn beyond repair and yet they found a way to work, to weld their jagged edges, and John is clinging to the fact that they’ll do it again.

The tearing, though: John’s not sure how they’d survive being torn in two, left open, with no one to staunch the bleeding.

And it’s an anomaly, this glimpse of the softness, of the thin-veiled feeling at the core that Sherlock permits for a moment—and it’s the moments, John’s found, that speak to the depth of what they have, of what it means. That Sherlock gives the moments is astounding, unprecedented, and John doesn’t want to close the gap, to throw the gift of hit back in his face.

He doesn’t want to, but there’s just no time.

“You’re not God, you berk. Much as you try,” John tries for lightness in the words, but there’s lead in his gut and he can’t make the leap. “You can’t make that promise.”

There’s a split second in time where Sherlock looks stricken. It’s instantaneous, but it’s more real than words can contain. 

“You’re being dull, John, deliberately obtuse,” Sherlock walls himself off again, poor patchwork, so many holes. He spits the words with indifference, nonchalance but he doesn’t refute John’s claim; they both know where this is going, for all that they won’t, can’t admit those truths. “I won’t willingly assent to a plan that divides our interests, that puts me in a place where I cannot ensure your safety.” 

It should sound like a promise, like devotion, but it doesn’t. It’s petulance, it’s refusal to compromise, and it’s a bid for control that echoes discordant, harsh in John’s ears for all that he knows Sherlock’s methods, his defence mechanisms, his means of clutching at the last of what he needs before it walks away, before it leave him, before he’s lost.

John’s only human, after all.

“I’m a soldier, Sherlock.” John feels the ire rise in him, taking the bait and twisting, raising his temperature and his hackles and the force of his blood. “I’m a grown man, I can look after myself.”

“This is about me, this is because of me,” Sherlock insists, jaw clenching, eyes averted once more as he draws himself up, infuses his patented superiority back into the cadence, the lilt of his tone. “This is my battle.”

“ _Your_ battle?” John snaps back, blindsided, knowing truths in his heart as his head recalls Sherlock’s viciousness, his solitariness, _alone_ , _I don’t have friends_. He knows truths, firm at the centre of him, and yet what John knows, what he wants to know and what he wants to know and what he desperately needs to forget: it all starts to bleed, unbidden, for the hateful sliver of a second; for a shameful moment in the cosmos, he falters and he doubts. “This is _our_ battle, you prick.”

“This is my legacy, my work and my,” Sherlock swallows, and John can tease out the line of Sherlock’s pulse at the carotid when his throat works around the motion, the give; John feels something seize in himself, subconsciously; something attuned to Sherlock’s body, aligned with his being underneath the irritation, the fury, the heat of the moment as it settles, seethes. “My hubris, perhaps, but it is mine, John. My triumphs and my failures that drew Moriarty’s gaze, that sparked his interest, and you,” Sherlock’s voice breaks, and later, John will revisit the moment in his mind, will recognise the catch for what it is: despair. 

Later.

Not now.

“You’re in the crossfire,” Sherlock finishes, strong, layered, but John’s in no place inside his own head to peel them back, to make sense of their significance, their weight.

“Right,” John exhales, bitter and slow. “And I’ve just been the sidekick then, the tagalong.” He swallows hard around the hammer of his heartbeat, recalling all the snide comments, compiling all the innuendoes and the assumptions and the way Sherlock’s shadow fell upon him, sometimes, rather than running at his side. “Your loyal pet.”

John moves to turn, to collapse in on himself and lick his wounds just a bit, but then Sherlock’s hand is around his wrist, the other at his hip, keeping him at arm’s length but only just: trembling, and the doubts slip, oil off the water of them both and John aches for it, all of it, for the life they lead and the sacrifices made; yet to be made.

He aches, but he could never regret.

“You have been _everything_ ,” Sherlock hisses, nearly moans; “but only the good, John.” Sherlock looks down at his hand, their hands, and John feels the minute tightening of those impossible fingers, that elegant touch against him, the push of fingertips into his heartbeat at the carpus. Sherlock stares, marvels for a moment, and John can’t help but fall a little, can’t help but loosen and fear for the times ahead when that touch is absent, when his heart’s unheld. 

“He found me without you,” Sherlock whispers, a rush of terror in the breath that shapes his words. “He wanted the person I was,” and he’s blinking too fast, too often, John can see; John’s own eyes sting, at that. “And he wants that person still.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, brings John’s hand up to his lips and kisses the palm, uncharacteristically affectionate, sentimental, and John shudders at the graze of Sherlock’s teeth when he pulls away, when he moulds John’s hand to the curve of his cheek. 

“He’ll come for you, he’ll take you to reduce me, to burn me, so that he can have just the ashes, the shell of what I am, closer to what I was,” Sherlock sucks in air like a challenge, a war between his lungs. “Efficient, and yet,” Sherlock’s chest heaves, rattles, deflates: he chokes on something thicker than tears as the words tumble out: “so very empty.”

“I,” Sherlock stumbles over the words, and John lets his hands trace down the sides of Sherlock’s neck, anchoring on his shoulders; grounding him, pulling him up and steadying what he can. “I know, I know in my mind that I remember it.” Sherlock ventures a glance at John, and John’s hands clench on the seams of Sherlock’s sleeves for the way those eyes are shining, for the way they’re red at the rims. 

“But,” Sherlock inhales, shaky. “I could, it’s as if,” he starts, falters, makes strained noises in his throat, the sound of shattered things when they get lost on the paths they dared to venture on at the vague and ominous promise of joy. John feels uncannily, indefensibly guilty in the face of those sounds, and pulls Sherlock to him, chest to chest.

“I feel as if I’ve forgotten how to _be_ without you near me, without you close,” Sherlock mouths, reluctant and repenting, confessional against the space above John’s ear, the line of his hair. “Despite the clearest recollections, I don’t think I could move, that I could learn the patterns of that life anew if you were gone, if you were lost, if you were de—” The word, the unspeakable fear between them, heavy in both their chests and black in both their brains is lost in a violent gasp, a heave that cuts off the unthinkable, that shakes Sherlock at his centre and lets the aftershocks echo through John’s torso in turn.

“And that, John,” Sherlock keens, his voice strained to breaking, his breath fast and hot and John’s chest is too full, his skin too small, his throat too tight and his breath scratches, bleeds coming out. “That is...”

Sherlock pulls back, looks John in the eye and makes up for the lack of contact with the way he doesn’t so much as blink, lest the connection there, iris to iris, be broken.

“I won’t wilfully go where I don’t have your heat next to mine at night,” Sherlock tells him with gravity, with purpose and an honesty that John rarely sees, but he knows it’s just for him. “Where I can’t know that your life endures because I feel it, because I can taste and touch it and make certain you exist. that you weren’t,” Sherlock breathes in deep, as if steeling himself for what comes, what he wants to purge and what John must prepare to take in. John’s own muscles tense in waiting.

“That you weren’t just a long high and cruel crash, that you weren’t a drug-induced haze out of the darkness, the hollow folds of my mind.” John shivers with the deadness in Sherlock’s voice, the loathing and the longing and the doubt, the need, and he wants to reach out, he wants nothing more than to apologise, than to say that it’s nothing, that they’ll run together and damn the consequences, but he can’t. He can’t risk what could be for the promise of only a moment, just the breath here and now and no other, no further, no guarantee.

John’s selfish, too.

“You are forcing me to trust that you, you of all things, John, of all irreplaceable and invaluable entities in this world,” Sherlock forces out in a rush, a tide, and John takes it, tries to parse out the love in it, the want in it from the shadows, the sadness, the loss. 

“You are asking me to trust that you will be safe, and I—” Sherlock blinks, and there’s maybe something small and wet, something shimmering that trails from the corner of his eye, but John doesn’t dwell on it, doesn’t check to be sure.

“I know.” John trails an open hand down Sherlock’s chest. “Do you think that I want this? Do you think I wouldn’t give _anything_ to make things different?” 

Sherlock doesn’t speak, swallows hard and turns away toward the wall, a hanging mirror; John can see the way his reflection blinks, the way Sherlock draws careful fingers across his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth—a ritual, a resonance, a bargain with the universe to make sense again, for evidence to yield fruit and answers to bear weight.

“But even if we could manage it, Sherlock, on our own, against all of them,” John continues, speaks to the muddled colours in the glass and plays his ace, hopes it makes his case enough to carry on, to make this hold. “What if he targets the others? What if they’re made victims because we fled?”

“Collateral damage.” Sherlock says it too fast, thoughtless.

“You don’t mean that.” John doesn’t want him to mean that. John thinks that most of Sherlock, in the grander scheme of it all, wouldn’t mean that. John _knows_ Sherlock. And John’s come to marvel at the depth of what Sherlock feels for the people he loves; the lengths he’d go to on account of that feeling.

John’s been more than blindsided, more than overwhelmed by just the glimpse of what Sherlock seems to feel for _him_.

“Like hell I don’t,” Sherlock snarls, turns on John and manoeuvres, swaps their positions in the blink of an eye and backs John the few feet that stand between his spine and the wall, the hard frame of the antique mirror he’s been staring at, staring in. John lets Sherlock do it, too; doesn’t fight the momentum because his pupils are narrowed, fixed on John’s and held, and his breath is cool, rapid and short against John’s cheek. John lets him, meets him, leans in when Sherlock presses open palms against the far sides of John’s chest, framing something vital, leaning too hard; _needing_.

“I’d let the world burn, John, if it meant you’d be safe,” Sherlock murmurs, rumbles low and John can trace the vibrations from the fault line, from the source, and fuck, _fuck_ he’s going to miss this, he’s going to—

Sherlock’s lips are so close to John’s now that when John looks up, his lashes brush Sherlock’s cheekbones; when John breathes, and his mouth just shifts with the passage of air, his lips catch on the damp rim of Sherlock’s pout.

“Surely you know that by now,” Sherlock whispers, exhales and John maps every syllable, every cut of a consonant and slip of a vowel before their tongues meet, too practiced to do anything but, and the warmth waiting behind their teeth’s laid open, desperate. 

“Sherlock,” John gasps, because for all that they’ve done and been and are—and _will be_ , goddamnit, because John needs this, John needs _him_ and this is going to _work_ and they will have forever, they will have a lifetime or more, and John refuses to believe otherwise, John will not survive thinking anything less; John gasps, because for all that he knows of the kisses Sherlock gives, of the way Sherlock can worship, can tease and attack his mouth, his flesh, John’s never known this before, this taking and this delving and the way he feels full and empty all at once for the sorrow that Sherlock’s leaving the wake of his tongue, the way he seems determined to drink John out and keep him, to take him in and possess all that John is, to know him not for the sake of curiosity, not for the sake of finding, but for the sake of remembering, of cherishing, of never fearing to forget.

It chills John to the very marrow in his bones.

“We’re good, Sherlock,” he breathes into Sherlock clavicle once they break apart; shakes his head, rubs the bridge of his nose back and forth against the bone. “But this is bigger than us.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asks, hopeful in a way John’s not sure he’s ever heard from the man, his friend, his partner, fuck: his world. “We thrive on danger, John. We’d make a stand. We’d have a chance.” There’s hope, yes, but then there’s also doubt. It’s a question, it’s a chance where there should be a certainty, and maybe John’s stomach drops, maybe his chest clenches because maybe, just maybe, John had been holding out for the moment when Sherlock would come up with something extraordinary: a better way, a surer plan, one that didn’t involve faking death and mourning and all the mess, all the heartbreak, real and imagined.

Maybe John had been hoping, too.

“I’d never let them touch you,” Sherlock promises, the last of his ammunition, the final thing he can offer to sway John’s resolve, to cushion his own fall as it looms. “Not again.”

John doesn’t doubt it.

“You’d give yourself for me?” John asks, quirks a brow. It’s not a question he needs an answer to, but he has a point to prove.

“In an instant,” Sherlock confirms, immediate, forceful. “I wouldn’t think twice.”

“And then what, Sherlock?” John parries, his voice low, harsh with his own feeling, with the thoughts and the _what ifs_ and all the nightmares that plague him in the dark and light alike, where Sherlock is broken, or bleeding, where his eyes are blank and colourless and his chest is still. “Then what am I left with?”

“A _life_ ,” Sherlock answers, a note of pleading, a hint of indignation. 

“Not the one I want.” John steps back into Sherlock’s space and reaches for him, cups the low line of Sherlock’s jaw and cradles his face at the chin, stares into him and drinks his fill of everything he knows, everything he can read in that gaze and prays it will sustain him in the desert that’s to come.

“Can’t you see I’d do the same for you, you lunatic, you fucking selfish, selfless,” John breathes in tight through clenched teeth. “Can’t you _see_?”

Sherlock looks about to shatter in the moment before he leans in and kisses John, hard and quick and bittersweet. John balances his forehead against Sherlock’s, draws him down so they’re lined together, pressed at the points that count.

“We’d last a bit, I know that,” John speaks, grants heat to the space between them: breath and life and friction. They’re both shaking, just a little—they’re both giving themselves this space, these moments before they can’t afford them, before it’s too late for second guesses. “I don’t doubt us.”

“But we wouldn’t last forever, Sherlock,” John pulls back a bit to meet Sherlock’s eyes, to tell all of him—the whole of him—what John needs for him to know, needs for him to comprehend and to see, else John won’t be able to withstand the weight of what he’s about to do, what he’s asking, what his plan will to do them both of them, to what they’ve forged between them like platinum and oxygen, like blood cells and gravity, sunlight and dark. 

“They’d come, they’d find us, they’d finish the job,” John argues, begs with his eyes and the press of his fingertips into Sherlock’s skin; he pleads for Sherlock to _understand_. “Always living in fear, always looking over our shoulders? Sherlock, I know what it’s like to have the enemy looming in the reeds. It’s no way to be,” John confesses, remembers war and the beat of his heart like a steel drum, a constant-clanging rumble. “It’ll kill us, if they don’t.” And John can’t abide that, John won’t stand for that.

He wants more. He _needs_ more.

“I,” Sherlock falters, voice thick, “I cannot deny the logic, the rationale.” He wants to, John can tell, but this is Sherlock. He’s constitutionally inclined toward the direction in which the evidence points. “You’ve crafted a wildly effective plan, elegant, but I—”

“This won’t be the end, Sherlock. This is not an end.” John says it, speaks it to truth because he needs to be assured of it just as much as Sherlock does. Perhaps more. 

“This is the means. This is the means to having everything else.” John does his best to let his eyes reflect the promise of the future he sees for them: cases until they’re too old for the Chase, until their joints creak. London until their knees can’t manage the stairs of their flat. The countryside and Sherlock’s bees; he tries to map those with his fingers, where they lilt across Sherlock’s knuckles, his wrists, his forearms, steady on his biceps. He tries to show Sherlock what _everything_ entails: a life for them, shared meals and long kisses and warm summer nights sprawled naked next to one another in the bed that’s their own. Hands entwined, wordless vows and maybe more, maybe words too, maybe witnesses and cool metal on their third fingers, clanking soft as they move in the dark.

John does all he can to convey that in the cadence of his breath, in the beat of his heart, in the slip of his hands on Sherlock’s skin.

“And if this works, we’ll survive to see it,” John seals it, _believes_. “We’ll all survive.”

He thinks of their friends, more a family than John’s ever dreamed; he thinks of learning the scent, the texture of Sherlock’s hair when it greys; they’ll _survive_.

It’ll be worth it, for that. All of it.

“Go on, then,” Sherlock says, sighs, and he sounds so defeated; “the plan.”

John takes a deep breath and concentrates, focuses: they can do this.

They can.

“Decapitation,” John nods to himself, crosses his arms over his chest. “First we take out the Head.” 

“The spider has a web, I’ve told you,” Sherlock shakes his head, purses his lips: doubtful. “Moriarty will come when I call, of that I’m certain. But he is merely a single piece on the board.”

“Which is why we draw them out slowly, poison from a wound,” John tells him, runs the battle-plans through his mind’s eye and thinks in terms of probabilities and statistical likelihoods, tries for the moment to divorce himself and his heart from the numbers and succeeds, if only partially; if only just. “Bleed and bait. Let them turn on each other where they will, where they can.” 

“And when that proves futile?”

John stares Sherlock straight in the eye, knowing what he’s asking, hoping it’s not too much; hoping that the invisible line they rubbed away between them is truly gone, that there’s nothing they won’t weather, the two of them. “Seek and destroy.”

Sherlock doesn’t blink; swallows rough, works his lips around his tongue for an instant before he inhales, hard. Nods. Doesn’t break John’s gaze.

Even after so long, so much: even after, John has to look away eventually, else he’ll turn back, lose his resolve and his mind and himself in that mercury-blue.

“Right,” John swings his arms in front of him and clasps his hands together at opposite angles as breathes in, out, and in. “Where’s that fucking squash ball of yours?”

_______________________________

And Sherlock had listened as John had outlined their offensive. He’d taken everything in without blinking, barely breathing, silent: passively absorbing on the surface whilst his mind raced, elaborated, expanded, improved; placed sharp edges where John was shaky, soft and filed down the rough patches so that the final product would be as flawless as they could manage, as time and space and the limits of practicality would afford. John might not know for certain what awaited them come morning, be he’s sure of this much: Sherlock will have taken what he envisioned and perfected it. Sherlock will have made his nightmare into a horror, a desecration, a blasphemy, a dead heart and a dying star: a psychotic break.

John swallows, and he listens for the the front door, already feeling the distance, the emptiness, the loneliness: the sting. His skin is tingling, his bones aching—there’s nothing to hear, no one sharing this space, no one there. Just John.

He reaches back in time to before, summons Sherlock in his mind; practises what it means to remember, to reconstruct reality as transparent, as a paltry imitation of the truth.

It’s all he’ll have left, come morning.

_______________________________

 

They’re sitting at opposite sides of Mycroft’s secret chamber; slumped, exhausted, as if they can’t bring themselves any closer, as if they’re bracing already for the wrenching that’s to come, the schism that will try to defeat them, to destroy all that they are. As if they can soften the impact.

They _can’t_.

“You’ll,” Sherlock murmurs: soft but it carries, permeates like a scream. “You’ll need to watch.”

And John knew that, John knows. But to hear it out loud, to process it as real and honest and true—he will have to watch Sherlock tumble from the top of a building and plummet to certain death, he will have to watch the man he loves take a dive from the edge; he will bear witness to his own heart when it makes contact, when it bursts open and sprays blood from the impact, splatters from the atria and ventricles, the aorta flayed open, spurting hard at the last until the blackness overtakes: he’ll have to watch.

John swallows bile in his throat and fights the seizing in his gut.

“I’ll,” he breathes in through his nostrils, tries to temper the nausea with cool air and force of will. “Right.” And the world spins a little, the images already burnt into his retinas, staring, all mocking, contemptuous loss and it’s not even happened yet, it’s not even done but his chest is on fire, his heart’s already spasming violently at the thought, and this is madness, this is senseless, this is—

“Right, of course I’ll need to,” because he will. If he’s not there, there will be questions. If he doesn’t scream, and break, and mourn, they’ll convince no one. They may not convince anyone in the end, anyway, but John will be damned if he costs them their shot from the start. “Right.”

“I,” Sherlock breaks the quiet, the deafening roar almost hesitantly, almost timid. “I wish you didn’t.”

And John wants nothing more than to reach out, to bridge gaps: to touch.

“Keep as much as you can from me,” John tells him, hoarse. “The details,” because John’s imagination is vivid, is vengeful enough, and Sherlock’s the clever one, he’ll fill in the blanks. “I—”

“Yes,” Sherlock cuts him off, his voice tremulous, a thread of silk stretched taut in the spin of a cyclone.

“Small mercies,” John chokes out, and he thinks maybe the crescents he’s digging into the heels of his palms with his fingernails will hit bone soon, will scar and stay and remind him of what’s real; will remind of this moment when the darkness hedges and he starts to forget.

“I understand,” Sherlock rumbles, thunder in the shadows and John wants to feel it against his ear, his chest, his hand, his mouth: he can’t do this.

He has to do this.

“Go,” John hisses, rasps, and Sherlock’s on his feet, the tension shattering, dissipating, unleashed: toxic. John’s not sure if he can breathe or he can’t; it’s more that he’s not sure he wants to, either way.

“But, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock pauses in his tracks at the crack in the wall leading back to the room, and the hall, and the doors, and the world. 

“Come back. Before we, before whatever you,” John stammers, loses himself before he ought to, before he has any right to: sooner than the universe, than the man that wears his soul could forgive. “Come back.”

“Of course,” Sherlock whispers, half-a-fragment, barely heard. “Wait for me.”

It’s a plea that strikes John deep in the vessels, the chambers of his heart and he’s livid with it, bright with it and breaking.

“Always,” he grinds out, violent, bone dust left behind when the words evaporate, vanish.

Sherlock’s gone before the echoes die.

_______________________________

 

John glances at the clock; Sherlock’s had a solid three hours—ten thousand, eight hundred seconds to organise, to arrange and prepare, to call in favours and plot their collective demise. He promised he’d come back when he was done. He promised. It’s fine. All of it.

It’s fine.

Except: what if he didn’t come back? What if it was too much? What if it was a clean break that Sherlock needed; what if he was resentful, what if he left and John didn’t get to tell him, to hold him, to feel him or taste him or remind him that he’s everything; what if John doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye?

What if the fall became real? What if John watched come sunrise and never knew for sure?

There’s wetness on John’s cheeks and all of a sudden his breathing is ragged; he stares at the skull and wonders at a life where the most interesting thing, the brightest spark of life in his day is the shape of a long-dead maxilla and the ephemeral reassurance that it’s not Sherlock’s, not Sherlock’s.

Not Sherlock’s bones. Jesus.

 _Jesus_ , fuck; his heart’s going to break out from his chest, going to shake free and undo him, going to end him here and now. He’s sure of it.

He gasps, wet and anguished, already grieving when he hears the scrape of a key in the lock. His breaths align automatically, unbidden to the cadence of footsteps, the double-creak on the seventh stair and he turns, he takes in the figure that stands in the doorway: desaturated, wrung feebly—eyes wild, curls limp. 

Lifeless.

John swallows; his throat stings with it. His pulse calms, slowly; grows languid. Resigned. 

“It’s done,” Sherlock whispers, monotone. Stripped bare. And John can’t even relish the fact that Sherlock’s here, that he’s home for now for this, for the last time until God knows when, until a day that John can’t chart or guarantee. 

Because it isn’t done. No, fuck, no: it isn’t done.

It’s only just beginning.


	4. Five Hours Prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am going to say one last thing to you,” Sherlock tells him, voice low, as he flattens John’s hands, stills them just above his heart; “after which, every word I utter today, I want you to disregard, afterward. It means nothing, none of it. Delete everything I say after I step through that door. Do you understand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in this chapter—traveling is, apparnetly, not conducive to posting. As always, my sincerest thanks to [](http://speak-me-fair.livejournal.com)**[speak_me_fair](http://speak-me-fair.livejournal.com)** for being a star and for always having such amazing suggestions, I mean... _seriously_.

It takes thirty-seven seconds—thirty-seven seconds of silence, relative silence, where only breathing and the rushing of blood seeks to penetrate, to pervade; thirty-seven seconds of numbness, where John can’t feel his limbs and Sherlock stands perfectly still, too still, illuminated by the street-lamps below, dull where he should be shining, his chest expanding too fully, straining against the give of his shirt.

It takes thirty-seven seconds before they meet, before their mouths meet; before they grasp at what’s left with both hands and pull close, closer: before Sherlock’s fingers fit themselves at the nape of John’s neck, reach out and dig so that the pads of them press bruises, so that John fights a hiss when the blunts of each nail scrapes, collects evidence so as to catalogue, remember; thirty-seven seconds before John’s teeth aren’t just nipping, but outright biting, begging— _stay, go, be safe, be strong, forgive me, please, please, please don’t forget me and love me, Christ, come back in one piece and please, say you still love me_ —

It takes thirty-seven seconds.

John feels his own heart pulsing, pushing in his lower lip, against Sherlock’s thumb at the side of his neck like a countdown, an omen. He presses in, tighter against Sherlock’s frame, steadies himself, traps the hum of Sherlock’s pulse at the breastbone like a sparrow caught between their ribs, desperate, anxious, wanting.

John slips his tongue past Sherlock’s lips and devours the moan that follows, hungry, starving, savouring its taste for when it’s absent, when he’s bound to forget.

His eyes burn, at that, so he squeezes them shut and licks the lines of Sherlock’s gums, memorising, _needing_. 

Their clothing trails after them erratically; John’s jumper on the sofa, Sherlock’s suit in the kitchen—trousers across the table, his jacket sleeve hanging from the sink. Sherlock’s fingertips are slipping low beneath the line of John’s pants, less teasing and more relishing, worshipping in a way Sherlock’s never managed before, like a man overwhelmed by a purpose, an ecstasy, an agony: some inner burning because he believes in a force he cannot see or touch but feels keenly in his blood and believes in it beyond comprehension and he is driven mad with it, violent with it, and grateful, and mourning.

It is everything Sherlock abhors at his core and yet it is Sherlock’s warm breath gasping, Sherlock’s long fingers tracing, Sherlock’s scent and his taste and it is _Sherlock_ , heartfelt, through and through, for all that it makes no sense; makes the only sense that’s left.

John has to fight the shudder down his spine when he realises what it means, what it all adds up to when the contradictions cancel out. He has to remind himself to breathe when he feels the way that Sherlock touches him gently, fragile, fully like he’s never done before, and they’ve been together now for the best part of a year, but this, this is something unprecedented. This is drowning where they once came up for air.

This is all or nothing, and John’s heart seizes for the way his feet still for a moment, of their own accord, on the threshold of their bedroom like they know, like his muscles understand that this could be it, this could be all that they have, and John sucks the air from Sherlock’s lungs all the harder, all the more unforgiving and desperate, unwilling to unlock their lips, to pull back, to end _anything_ —

“Don’t kiss me like it’s the last time,” Sherlock tears away, lips red, slick and swollen; eyes too bright as he snarls, shakes, as his voice cracks and he blinks too hard. “ _Don’t_.”

John dips his head, an acknowledgement of all the apologies he can’t make, _won’t_ make for this but that he still feels so keenly, deep in the marrow when Sherlock chest heaves and he swallows a whimper and a scream as John slides a hand up Sherlock’s bare skin, follows the line of his sternum, stretches his fingers to the nape of his neck and brings him down, brows aligned as they breathe, as John exhales something for Sherlock to take in and he does, greedily: finds a bearing there in the thick air between, in the hum within the ether and the fear latched around two hearts.

It’s frantic, at first, just the process of getting from point A to point B. 

Sherlock pins him hard against the wall, lungs barely taking in air, eyes glazed with want and terror and a breathlessness John feels starting to take him over, too. John’s hips buck, not a challenge but a need, an imperative from the universe to fight stillness and entropy, and Sherlock moans at the contact, the friction between their erections and John takes the opening, walks Sherlock back until they sprawl onto the bed, all wrong angles. John’s teeth graze against Sherlock’s jaw, his tongue on skin rough for shaving, and damnit, oh, but how is he going to survive without this, without this body but more, more than that, this soul next to him, open in moments like this, so rare, seeping out from the eyes and burning through fingerprints and holding, holding, struck wild in the centre of John’s chest like magma and lightning and the melding of iron and being and lives, two lives made whole because of canes and limps and rent in London and pensions for shit and fuck, fuck, but John cannot envision so much as his reflection in the mirror without this man, anymore, he can’t.

He _can’t_ , and he absolutely refuses to think about the fact that in less than twelve hours, he won’t have to imagine it. 

John swallows a sob and shudders when Sherlock presses the bridge of his nose to John’s inner thigh, his breath hot against the base of John’s shaft. He looks down, and Sherlock is watching him, those eyes hooded and so fucking blue it makes John’s ribs shift to squeeze on the lungs, to cage in the heart of him as he tries to breathe, and Sherlock gives him honesty and the vulnerable core of him in a look, just a look, and John’s never been able to stand at the feet of that kind of marvel, that sort of gift, he can’t. Sherlock touches the tip of his tongue to John’s length, asking, waiting where normally he’d charge ahead, and that’s how John knows what it is that Sherlock wants, what he needs.

John nods, and Sherlock swallows his cock with a practiced ease that took them time, that fits in a way John’s never had with another partner, never before this: Sherlock sucks him gently, enough for John’s eyes to flutter closed but not enough to bring him off—leaves him wet and slick and straining before he stretches up John’s body and kisses him, leaves something of himself in John’s throat for him to remember, to choke on with sorrow and joy before John flips him, ravishes his mouth with the same strength of wanting before he reaches down to tease Sherlock’s entrance, to test the give of the muscles, to measure the femoral pulse in passing and relish it, memorise, ingrain into the marrow of his bones.

He waits a moment, to see if his pulse will calm before there’s no going back.

It doesn’t. John isn’t surprised.

So John moves them, aligns their bodies and the length of their arms, the hold that they can’t let go: John’s heart is heavy and flush against Sherlock, ventricle to apex when they slide close and their skin catches, clings like the rest of them to all it can have, all they can keep. As John presses into him, allows everything that is his lover and his friend, his lantern and his guidepost and his strength: John lets all of Sherlock Holmes overcome him, overwhelm him, from the leanness of the lines of him to the heat inside that burns at his core. He thrusts, and Sherlock meets him, constructs a rhythm around John’s frantic sense of need, thready and trembling but true, and John gasps when Sherlock’s hips cant upward, when Sherlock loops his arms around John’s neck and draws him down, foreheads bowed together, Sherlock’s nails leaving crescents in John’s sweat-slick skin.

“You taught me how to breathe,” Sherlock forces out, a trial, a concession, pleas and accusations for the feeling he’d despised so deep as to grow his soul around it. “I thought that I could see and yet you gave me colour.”

John’s forehead slips as he angles himself, their bodies; as he braces his hand now at the centre of Sherlock’s chest, a mark and a meaning, a touchstone as Sherlock gives the things he cannot recognise by name but knows their worth; as Sherlock tells him secrets so tightly guarded, reminding John that he lives beyond the gates themselves, that he knows these hidden truths like stethoscopes and the texture of Sherlock’s skin.

“You made the world bleed miraculous things,” Sherlock sobs into John’s mouth as he stills, waits for his own heart to stop pushing the air from his lungs before he can use it, before it can make any difference and give him some hope for the after, the later, the loss. “Don’t make me leave you.”

John meets Sherlock’s gaze in that instant, because there’s nothing else for it. John says nothing, for there are no words as his chest clenches, the air escapes, and he moves, because he has this. 

In this moment, he has the man he loves.

“John,” Sherlock moans, the sound startled out as John sinks into him, as Sherlock’s palms scramble blind at John’s shoulder-blades, pressing him close to that their lungs fight for space, so that their ribcages clang and their pulses seek a beat that matches both. “Oh,” comes the soft-strain of a sigh when Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and his nails break the skin. “Christ, John.”

“Don’t hate me,” John pants, the harsh single syllables a stab, lancing quick and painful, wrenching from his throat, all broken glass and into Sherlock’s chest, it seems, for the way his lungs catch as he gasps, as John thrusts, hand on Sherlock’s chest, to the right of his pounding pleading heart. 

“Please, don’t hate me for this,” John whimpers as he feels his hips stutter, feels the beginnings of a shudder, an avalanche as it begins in his fingertips, the grasp of his palm at Sherlock’s hips. “Please.”

“Hate you?” Sherlock says it, a clarity in his eyes as the haze of pleasure and despair clears for an instant, as he claims and holds a space for them, a moment: an eye of clarity in the deluge, in a storm of a strength they’ve never survived before and must, must learn to endure now because worse, so much worse is waiting on the brink. 

“Hate you,” Sherlock repeats, almost marvels as he strokes John’s cheek with a certain solemnity, with a singular focus, as if there’s nothing else for this moment, no other motion or sense to the world, here and now. 

“I _love_ you,” Sherlock pledges, prays, and John feels his heart clench and skip and soar all at once, so confused and conflicted and yet anchored here, unmoving, unfailing; tied to this until the breaking. “I could never love anything as I love you.”

“You are,” Sherlock inhales, a hiss, as John rocks into him, presses close, moves slow so that he can hold Sherlock to him, sweat-slick and impermeable; can relish and absorb his being as part of the rhythm, as a matter of course.

“What, Sherlock?” John kisses his shoulder, grazes his teeth and tastes the salt of him. “What am I?”

“Starlight,” Sherlock moans, half-crazed, his mind unbound, bright and manic and mighty behind his eyes. “Cilia and rose-quartz tetrahedra,” his lips form the words once through before the sounds come out, and twice more: an affirmation, making sure. “Hegelian consciousness and Sherrington's law.” The vowel peaks and lingers long as Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, as his neck stretches long when John sinks low, slides against the prostate, draws out the upstroke. “The most crucial aspect of an inward breath,” Sherlock forces out, broken, as the breaths themselves come fast and shallow, still so sweet. 

“You are essential,” Sherlock pants as John moves, pushes in and teases back out. “Without you,” Sherlock starts but can’t, won’t finish, and it’s a flurry, a frenzy of motion and sound and sensation except that it’s both delicate and fierce, heartbreaking and heartrending and heart-stopping in the way that Sherlock rises to him and begs him near, challenges and cries out for him in the same instant, so much himself and yet everything he hides and he confesses with his eyes wide open, as he trembles for pleasure and porous, pristine terror all at once.

John wants to run away with him, in that instant. John would move heaven and earth and give all he holds dear for this man, in this moment, and damn every consequence that dared cross their path.

John trembles on his own when he sinks into Sherlock again, deeper now, more complete: as he seats himself entirely, sheathed in Sherlock’s tightness and heat as Sherlock whimpers, prays:

“Cease,” he lets out on a stolen fraction of a breath, robbed from failing lungs overtaxed, overturned. “Without you I would cease entirely.”

And they know what that means, for a man like Sherlock. They know what it means to be still, to stop.

John feels something in him as it rips into shreds, as it lights and ignites and tells him that this is all he needs: to protect this and keep it always, that distance is nothing to knowing that he is that fucking _necessary_ to a soul as bright as the one burning beneath him.

“Don’t ask me to risk that,” John begs, demands: hisses in askance before he moves again; makes eye contact and holds it for a moment that spans oceans and tides. “For either of us. Don’t ask me to. I can’t.”

Sherlock blinks, doesn’t move his head, but clenches his muscles around John’s hard length within him, digs his nails against John’s spine and makes demands of his own in exchange for hard-won assent.

“God,” John moans when Sherlock’s hips meet his own, sloppy and strident and so fucking strong. “Oh God, you’re perfect,” he mumbles, babbles, slowly losing coherency even as his heart’s never beat so solid, so sure. 

“You’re gorgeous and you’re perfect and you’re a madman and a god-given trial and Jesus, fuck, I love you,” he cries out, wet and vibrant as he comes to his peak. 

“I love you,” and Sherlock starts to shake and spill between them, and there’s white at the edges, trimming all of it, all of them. 

“Come back,” John keens, unbidden: begs and commands as he calms, spent—presses the demand into Sherlock’s skin like a violence and a grace. “Promise me you will come back.”

Sherlock twines fingers into John’s sweat-drenched hair and bends, curls into him and presses a kiss, hard to the crown of John’s head before he draws John to his chest and holds him tight to the surface: the flesh and the bone. John seeks Sherlock’s free hand and gathers it close to his own chest; Sherlock flattens his palm to John’s sternum, expertly placed and he breathes, they breathe.

“It doesn’t matter if he burns the heart out of you.” The words are out before John can stop them, before he can wonder, before he can feel hesitance or shame, before he can think twice about stating obvious things. 

“You have mine,” and his mouth traces Sherlock’s neck, licks at the pulse as it moves, thrusts at the skin quicker, harder where it’s meant to slow in the comedown. “You will always have mine.”

And John can’t be sure, but he thinks there’s a shudder that echoes in the beat beneath his ear when Sherlock sucks in a knife-sharp breath that catches halfway through; he rests his weight harder, more fully against Sherlock’s frame, shifts his head just so. He moves, and catches a droplet, a small oblation made of salt and sorrow that if he squints, he can trace the path of it from the shoulder blade, up to the neck, and the wetness still glimmering, replenished where it falls from the chin, down the cheeks, around those pained and parted lips, from the corner of each eye and it’s then that he feels the tremors: not aftershocks, but shaking, confined mourning and fear and the tension in each heartbeat and it’s the tightness in John’s chest and the agony of fracture and decay and John already feels something in him dying, and Sherlock, well.

Sherlock never cries.

And John realises, in that moment, that there’s no respite anymore, no comedown to be had—only onwards, all too fast.

He closes his eyes against sunrise and presses his lips to Sherlock’s skin, feeling his own heart surge back to racing.

__________________________________________

The sun’s not yet risen when Mycroft knocks. They don’t answer. Mycroft doesn’t expect them to. 

John does up the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, lets his fingers linger a moment too long. Sherlock sighs, his own hands clenched at his sides, violent, but John knows better, reads the tension in the tendons, sees the way the fists forestall the shaking.

John feels as if he might be sick.

“Sherlock,” John speaks his name, and he hates the way everything is betrayed in that single word, that perfect word where possibility dwells and the future lives, that single identity that calls like Lazarus and brought a dead man back to breathing, taught the lame to walk again and John prays, as his voice cracks on that second gorgeous syllable, that Sherlock Holmes will give him one more miracle, please, _please_ , just one more.

“I am going to say one last thing to you,” Sherlock tells him, voice low, as he flattens John’s hands, stills them just above his heart; “after which, every word I utter today, I want you to disregard, afterward. It means nothing, none of it. Delete everything I say after I step through that door. Do you understand?” 

Sherlock’s eyes are wild, frantic, and his chest below John’s hands is trembling; his heart below John’s fingertips is rebelling, riotous, and John can feel the ache of it, sympathetic, damning beneath his own ribs. “Will you do this for me?”

John nods, but doesn’t break the gaze.

“You are everything,” Sherlock whispers, moans. “You are _everything_ , and I know I don’t deserve you, but I hold you dearer than any construct, any concept, any potentiality in the cosmos,” Sherlock sucks in air, violently, and John follows it, gasps too, his hand at Sherlock’s sternum taking in what he can, all he can, in the time that’s left.

“And I will finish this,” Sherlock exhales, shaky but adamant, a flimsy surety that John will buy, will hold, because it is something, it is _something_ and John needs all that he can get. “I will finish this for both of us, and then I will come home.” 

“I love you,” John whispers into the hollow of his partner’s throat.

“And I, you,” Sherlock rumbles below John’s touch, against John’s whole body. “More than you can imagine.”

“No,” John shakes his head, and Sherlock presses lips to his hair, wraps arms around him tighter and presses him closer, impossibly close, and John doesn’t need imagination. Not for this. “No, I think I know it well.”

John feels the fabric below his cheek growing damp, senses moisture on his scalp as he presses his lips to the pulse at Sherlock’s neck, closes his eyes and breathes it all in.

John tenses when he hears Mycroft’s footsteps, soft and careful as he descends the stairs—out of character: a countdown, a clarion call. 

This is it.

“John—”

  
__________________________________________

Mycroft waits at the threshold; secures the door and stares at his brother as Sherlock folds himself into the car. He reads what’s left out, open to be discerned and then deduces the rest in his own way as he follows Sherlock in, measures Sherlock’s gait and the set of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. 

“Sentiment,” Mycroft says as he straightens his jacket and smooths his trousers, his seat facing Sherlock’s as he watches Baker Street fade through the rear window. 

“Caring,” and Mycroft ducks his head, masks the way he swallows too hard with the motion; he needn’t have bothered. Sherlock’s attention is focused on something beyond what he sees, outside of the window as the city passes, as he says goodbye to the fathomless ether in his own mind, London and the heart that it holds. “You didn’t expect it.”

“It’s not an advantage,” Sherlock declares, admits, almost muses; voice low. His tone is just this side of dispassionate, but his pulse is visible at the neck. “It’s a privilege and an early grave.”

Mycroft scoffs, sniffs down a sort laughter that borders on despair; he sucks a bit at the inside of his lower lip to maintain composure, to school his features with resolve.

“You’ll watch out for him?” Sherlock’s voice is a hiss, a demand, and a plea, and it twists in Mycroft’s torso, straight down his spine, to hear it, to see the blankness and the grey overtake Sherlock’s flesh and turn him cold already; to hear the heartache in each syllable and feel so powerless to stop it, to take the pain from his brother and hold it himself, instead.

“You know that I will,” Mycroft answers, stoic; steady, but firm, and something in Sherlock eases, just this side of imperceptible; Mycroft holds it warm in his chest as a small but certain victory. “Though I think it may come to pass that it’s him watching out for us, more often than not.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch fractionally, even if they drop back into their tense and tenuous line an instant later. 

“Quite right,” Sherlock exhales, his hands wringing repetitively, the motions slow and precise, the white at his knuckles positively spectral. 

“He is exceptional,” Sherlock states, half-awed and fully certain, less a praising of his lover than a statement of uncompromising fact; and Mycroft would be the last man, now, to make a claim to the contrary.

Sherlock falls silent, but Mycroft can sense the vibrations in him, the sickening energy, the tremors that come from something splitting, something tearing from a fault-line in the chest and he awaits what will spill, what will come, what will tumble forth unbidden and unstoppable because Sherlock Holmes is a paragon of control, to be sure, but this is beyond him. 

Mycroft knows.

“I don’t,” Sherlock stops himself, drums his fingers against the glass of the window, the handle in the door. “He’s, he is,” and this time, he doesn’t stop speaking of his own volition; it’s the crack in his voice and the way his eyes gleam, a combination of constriction and _emotion_ that Mycroft hasn’t witnessed in his brother, hasn’t watched on those features, that face in so long that it almost arrests him, almost steals his breath, takes him back to a time he’s both clung to and longed to forget. 

“He is so much, and it’s,” Sherlock swallows, clears his throat. “I’d never fathomed so many varieties, so many intensities of feeling could exist, could be contained in,” Sherlock gasps, his left hand massaging at his clavicle almost brutally, subconsciously; Mycroft sees a child, then, beneath the downcast lashes and the high cheekbones and the limp curls. Mycroft sees the baby he’d sworn to protect and the toddler who’d taken shivering steps toward him, the youth who had let his sibling bandage a scrape and press a kiss to it, ensuring swift healing. He sees a soul that trusts in the mystical and unfathomable powers of the older brother to fix everything, to make even the worst of things right.

“Look at me,” Mycroft urges, and his voice has never sounded so porous, so placid and open, an invitation to trust—a younger voice, maybe, but not this one, not his, not now. 

It means something unnameable when Sherlock looks at him, obeys; when Sherlock’s eyes meet his unveiled and wild with doubt. It means something Mycroft can’t put words to that Sherlock comes to him in this instant, in this time of need, and Mycroft can’t deny that there is a part of him, a necessary part, that is overcome with the _meaning_ imbued in it all, the opportunity is speaks to that may have come to late.

That might be just in time.

“We will survive this, Sherlock,” Mycroft speaks it, vows it, wills it into being with all of the authority a minor government official could possess. “We will all of us survive this,” he swears it, with all the sentiment he’s buried, taught his brother to bury, too: all the sentiment that can destroy but can inspire, he knows, as in this moment, as in this space in time right now where Mycroft knows he cannot fail, because he _feels_ too strongly for it to slip through his fingers, lost to the ages. “I _promise_ you.”

It takes a moment, a long moment, a near-infinite moment, but Sherlock nods, assents, agrees, and something loosens in Mycroft’s chest that he never realised had been constraining him to begin with; when he breathes, more deeply than before, it feels nearly magnificent, almost obscene.

“I never believed that I would find this.” Sherlock confesses without the words wavering, but Mycroft can hear the depths that echo behind, that stretch and gape and weep below. Mycroft takes in Sherlock’s frame, the pallor of him, the way his muscles stand so tight as to shiver from the strain, the way his eyes won’t focus, the way his chest only lifts in shuddering, in tiny, shallow gasps. 

“I didn’t think that I could,” Sherlock admits, and his voice is barely gathered, the tones scattered and scared, and Mycroft sees the tremble in his lip, sees everything he is fighting to reign. “I—”

“ _I_ believed,” Mycroft tells him, and for a moment, for a dangerous instant he hasn’t allowed in years, so many years, he lets himself be a brother before a keeper, allows himself to put blood before duty without remorse or veiling: allows his own heart to stretch and reach for someone he worries for, he cares for, he’ll never stop loving for the tiny fingers that has clenched his from a cradle, for the eyes that had stopped crying for his awkward embrace; for the faith in a gaze where the sharpness shifted but the colour never changed, and a pulse that came back after the first overdose, and the second; for the hand that hadn’t dealt him the blow of a third, not yet.

Not yet.

Mycroft feels frozen, even as fire runs through his veins, and he can centre on the beat of his heart where it pushes the skin, brushes below his waistcoat, hidden but more powerful than he’ll acknowledge, closer to the surface now than it’s been since he’d left home, seeping into his lungs and shaping the words he speaks without permission, without relent. 

“I won’t pretend it wasn’t difficult, now and again, to keep the faith,” he offers, and he has to blink too fast to see anything with perfect clarity; he has to breathe too deep to hear the little shifts and gives from across the way but he knows his brother, or knew him, and for all that’s changed more has stayed the same and Mycroft knows that Sherlock’s watching the crown of his head as he ducks it; he can feel Sherlock’s gaze as he looks down at the floor and folds his hands beneath his chin, shakes his head so that his fingers brush dry, back and forth, against his jaw. 

“But I always believed, petit frère,” he whispers, and something shudders in him as he says it aloud, that truth that hides and holds so many others, secret; as he lets it out and sets it free and realises that in moments, he may never see his brother again.

“ _Always_.” It’s barely audible, bathed in weakness and sentiment and the most vulnerable of wounds that were never meant to heal, and it speaks volumes, it shouts from mountaintops and across chasms—it means _everything_ when Sherlock doesn’t call him on it, simply breathes, uneven. Simply looks, and the stare he levels at Mycroft seems softer, somehow, than either of them deserve.

The brakes grind ever so slightly as the car comes to a halt; the air empties from Mycroft’s lungs before he’s ready to let it go, and he runs his hands across either side of his face, around his eyes and down his cheeks, a mournful pattern as he exhales, as he gasps in air again and raises his head, composed.

“It’s time.”

Sherlock nods, expression equally blank, and he opens the door with steady fingers and makes to leave.

In passing, though, he pauses, and Sherlock lays a hand on Mycroft’s knee, deliberate, and imbued with a meaning as he pauses, as he breathes in deep and his fingers grasp for an instant before he’s gone. 

Their eyes don’t meet.

Mycroft absolutely doesn’t flinch when the door closes; his voice is strong and steady when he instructs the driver to leave.

Above all else, he doesn’t, he _does not_ look out the window, does not watch as Sherlock’s figure walks toward the building, toward his doom and his salvation, all at once.

Mycroft doesn’t. 

But part of him wishes that he could.

__________________________________________

Sherlock thumbs a quick text in the darkness, in the predawn shroud as he walks toward the hospital, as the gears turn behind his eyes and his heart pumps violently, hatefully, so wrathful as to raise bile and blood in his throat when it pounds, the contractions erratic, ill-timed, some omen of things to come.

He fights a shudder as he selects the recipient; his heart stumbles in its war-march when it sees that name, when it recognises the letters on the screen as _life_ , and _warmth_ , and _fulfilment_ and _fullness_ and _home_.

It’s the one thing his mind and his heart agree upon, over which sentiment and logic never quibble. John Watson.

Always John Watson.

_Bart’s. Come at once, regardless of convenience. SH_

It is time, indeed.


	5. Epicentre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It shouldn’t come as a surprise, not in the slightest. This is his creation, this is his handiwork. This is the manifestation of his dreams and his nightmares when they’re one and the same. This is exactly what he asked Sherlock to do.

There are engines, vehicles, the treads of tires gripping to the still-damp street below, releasing, gripping again. There’s a bird, a nest where it’s not meant to be, too idyllic for this place, these streets, this _moment_. There’s his heart when it pumps and his blood when it rushes and there’s breath that hisses, full of static and harsh release over the connection, over airwaves into his ear, not his breath, but his, always his, so crucial to him, and fuck, dear lord, just—

“Oh God.”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, not in the slightest. This is his creation, this is his handiwork. This is the manifestation of his dreams and his nightmares when they’re one and the same. This is exactly what he asked Sherlock to do.

Except it is a surprise, to the very bones in his body and deeper, and when gravity shifts at the image, at the stark relief of Sherlock, black against a pale sky at the ledge of that building, so fucking high; it’s lightning in his veins, it’s a shock to his system and he cannot breathe himself, he can’t, so he clutches the phone and listens to the heaving, and imagines his vision to be more than it is, could ever be: he imagines himself as stronger and fuller than a human being can know and he envisions Sherlock’s chest rising and falling with the motion of his lungs, overworked, too much, too much—

John’s adopted ways of processing that which should be overwhelming, the things that should take him and wring him and ruins him and tear out his heart for dissecting. He’s learned to inhale, to hold still, to close his eyes and count, to focus on the tensing of his muscles and the pounding of his pulse, to envision colours or places, to trace the shape of smiles that put him at ease, to remember sensations and fixate for a moment before rooting in the present and doing, simply doing, and never looking back.

John rolls his shoulders back, forces his lungs to fill as his eyes slip closed as he imagines the shape, the open shape of Sherlock’s mouth as he peaks, as he clutches John close and his eyes are too saturated, shining too bright. He imagines the rasp of his gasping breath around John’s name, where the sounds stifle into John’s shoulder; he imagines that space where absolute anarchy that reigns between them when Sherlock presses close enough, tight enough so that John can feel the hammering of his heart through the bones and the space and the skin, so that their pulses are pushing against one another in a war and a dance and an embrace that John never wants to leave, never wants to lose: John thinks of Sherlock in those moments, where his breath and his warmth and his heart, his blood and his body and him being are everywhere, everything, and he exhales before his eyes snap open again, and he remembers the now; orientates himself toward what needs to be done.

And it works. 

Almost. 

It almost works, because he can’t prepare for what is about to happen, he can’t prepare for the finale when the crescendo is beyond sense, beyond his ability to contain. 

He’d asked for ignorance, knew it to be necessary, and he curses himself to hell and back for the twisting in his chest, of every length of vein and vessel in his body as it crosses shrill about his torso, tighter, tighter, tighter.

John swallows. He can’t feel his limbs.

He can’t process, can’t accept and contextualise and ignore the way that Sherlock spills the most virulent lies, the most horrible falsehoods; John can’t wish away how they drop like acid in the pit of his gut. Sherlock posits Moriarty as an invention, as if John had never seen insanity in a man’s eyes, as if he’d never lived amid explosives and could tell at a glance whether the hands holding them were familiar enough to show respect; as if he’d never pulled truth and frayed it away from a twine of fictions.

And Jesus, _Jesus_ , John remembers the care and assurance with which that vest had hugged his chest more than a whole host of things, if less, always less than he remembers the hands that shook to free him from that same vest’s hold—if less than he recalls the cadence of the shaking, the rhythm, the breaths; less than all of the things about those lungs and the body they dwelled inside, the heart they held close, the soul they gave life to so John could find it and fall for it harder, faster than gravity, the speed of sound.

But the worse than this—so much _worse_ , and the tightness in his chest starts to impeded his ability to breathe, starts to dent and divot the chambers of his very heart—it is _so much worse_ when Sherlock tries to brand himself a fake.

As if the exact shift in hue, the brightness of Sherlock’s eyes could ever be shammed, as if the electric quality of his skin upon contact could be fabricated; as if the rasp in his voice when he spoke, murmured with his mouth pressed to the pulse in John’s neck—as if the words that came out of him, rich and smooth and secret could ever be mistaken for falsehoods, ever.

 _No_.

John breathes again, and blinks, and Sherlock’s silhouette against the grey inverts against his eyelids, steals the air halfway to his lungs as everything collapses, condenses, comes to a head.

_Every word I utter today, I want you to disregard, afterward._

Yet Sherlock is asking the opposite. Sherlock wants him to say it, to repeat it, to tell Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, to tell their friends, to tell _everyone_ , and his chest feels too large, too small—it threatens to slice apart against its restraints, for the pressure; it threatens to break outward for the velocity of the muscle, the pumping, the way it can rattle and the building momentum with every sickening thump; and he tries to make sense, tries to pick things apart and see what Sherlock’s saying, what he means, the words he’ll never disregard because what if, what _if_ —

Molly. 

Molly doesn’t fit—Molly is more, now, to Sherlock than before, than he’d ever admit aloud but Molly is the anomaly, they’d discussed Mrs. Hudson, they’d touched on Lestrade, all targets, all—

_It means nothing, none of it._

He repeats it, replays Sherlock’s expression, his tone, the deliberate enunciation of each word, each syllable, imbued with such _significance_ , tries to make it stick, tries to make it real and undeniable: it means nothing, disregard.

He _tries_ , goddamnit, but he _can’t_ , because there it is, tinny and breathless and choked in his ear and what if none of this is an act, what if none of this is staged, what if something changed that John can’t have accounted for, what if this is an end, what if this means everything, this here, this instant where  Sherlock is speaking and there’s a strain, a sob behind every word and John feels useless, helpless, he’ll be sick in a moment, he’ll—

_Delete everything I say after I step through that door. Do you understand?_

And John, he, just—no.

John does not understand.

Sherlock speaks, and John tries to pay it no mind, focuses on what he knows, what he can tell, what he can parse and pick apart and imagine into being. 

Right. Molly, then. Subtle. Molly helped, Molly had to have helped him put it all together, of course she did, and if Molly is involved, then maybe this will work, Molly’s smart, much sharper than anyone gives her credit for, if Sherlock turned to her than this can work, with Molly’s insight and Mycroft’s resources, and Sherlock’s mind, his brilliance, and maybe, just maybe his love for a man standing, watching, _desperate_ , his devotion and his trust in John himself, maybe—maybe between them, they’ll pull it off.

Maybe between them, there’s no potentiality they can’t prepare for, and conquer; can’t endure and overcome.

“Shut up,” John says when the stream of Sherlock’s words continue, try to talk him out of this tenuous resolve, this fragile thing that looks like confidence but feel far too weak: he says, it demands it, but it’s without heat, without weight—John never wants Sherlock to stop talking, to stop breathing, to stop—

John never truly wants Sherlock to stop.

“Nobody could be that clever,” Sherlock tells him, resigned, and his voice is foreign, hits all the wrong pitches and comes out strangled.

“You could,” John answers in earnest, certain, because John Watson believes fervently, and not without reason, and this is Sherlock, this is _Sherlock Holmes_ —

The laughter is choked, startled, and John wants to put everything in its proper place, wants to remember that it doesn’t matter that it’s impossible, that it makes no sense at all that his sister, vain thing that she is, would be found on the internet without a photo to match, without her curves and her lashes and her lips: as if anyone who’d typed her name in connection to John would have so much as the _opportunity_ to mistake her for a man, the name be damned—it doesn’t _matter_ , because this is nothing, this is false and wrong and wretched and necessary and there was a plan and whether or not his heart wants to believe it, whether or not it keeps vibrating in his chest and his jaw and his temples and his throat, regardless it’s _nothing_ , these are _lies_ , and it’s, this, it’s—

“It’s just a magic trick.”

And Sherlock’s heard the story, of Watson the Magnificent, of a tiny boy in a ratty cape being juvenile, being silly. He’s seen John to this day calm a child, at the surgery or a crime scene, by pulling a penny out from behind an ear, and John clings to that common knowledge, clutches to the word choice and makes it into everything he needs.

_Just a magic trick_.

“Stay _exactly_ where you are.”

Position. Control of the situation. Knowing the players and their interaction with the illusion, their contribution to the mirage.

“Don’t move.”

Consistency. Predictability. Stability. Focus.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

Misdirection, reassignment of attention. Sherlock knows the process, can deconstruct mere sleight of hand. 

“Please, will you do this for me?”

John swallows, and keeps staring. _Anything_ , he thinks, and he hopes its read inside his silence, inside what they are and what they share and what no fall or falsehood could splinter or stall. 

“Do what?” That’s what comes out, but Sherlock is quiet for an instant, and his breathing changes, and John knows him, John knows _them_ and he’s not imagining it, he’s not conjuring comfort, because Sherlock understands. Sherlock knows.

Sherlock _has_ to _know_.

“This phone call,” Sherlock stutters, stops, and so does John, so does something crucial in John’s body, his being—it’s not a surprise, but it hurts like hell.

“It’s my note,” Sherlock tells him, and John’s heart trips over itself, confounded, conflicted, frantic.

“Goodbye John,” Sherlock whispers, so sad, and he says _no_ ; he says _don’t_ —don’t jump, don’t lie, don’t listen, don’t _leave_.

He says things, and he barely breathes, but it happens so fast, _it all happens so fucking fast_.

He doesn’t hear himself scream, he doesn’t feel the vibration, the harsh pull of his vocal cords, the scratch against his throat. 

He doesn’t think about moving, doesn’t think about walking or going to check, to see.

He doesn’t see the coming impact, doesn’t feel the way the bike clips his side, doesn’t process the function of momentum and balance until they’re both acting and failing and succeeding and all at once, changing everything.

The taste of asphalt, the ringing in his ears, the tightness in his muscles, disorientation and everything so grey, so goddamned _grey_ and all he can says, the only word he knows is Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock....

When the line of that body as it fell bleeds into the ether—as it loses its shape for a moment, just a moment, John loses his footing.

He rises, and walks, but none of it’s real.

 _Sherlock_.

The eyes are staring, the wrong colour, the wrong brightness, the wrong contrast, the wrong shape and shade and focus: _wrong_.

And the blood, the blood, he doesn’t have to pretend to be shocked, he doesn’t have to sham devastation or heartbreak or the way he can’t see straight. He doesn’t have to act, and it’s good, it’s a damned good thing because he wouldn’t have managed, he’d have failed utterly, entirely—his brain is quiet and buzzing and his heartbeat is shuddering among all of this thoughts, jumbling them and creating horrible resonances, terrible repetitions: no, no, no, fell, fell, fell, red, spilled, dead, still—

No pulse, no pulse, no pulse.

_Where’s that fucking squash ball?_

And John just wants, just needs to touch, to find another pulse-point, he just needs to grasp and hold to blood that flows, that’s all, just a moment, he’ll say nothing, his own body will simply note and absorb and survive for the contact. He’ll reassure himself and he’ll right the cosmos and it will be enough, it will be enough for just the barest hint of life, of a bounding pulse for adrenaline and the rush of it and perhaps some fear, perhaps some love that transcends the ordinary tempo of a beating heart—

A moment.

Just one.

They block him, though, they deprive him, and there’s too little air, too small a concentration of oxygen in his body for anything to seem clear, for him to gather indignation above the crests of self-loathing: _this is your doing, John Watson, you did this, and those eyes, those eyes those eyes that body, that being, all that blood_—

He can’t swallow.

He can’t focus.

They’re taking Sherlock away, they’re taking the body that used to hold the man he loves, loved, will _always_ love; they’re taking him away and this was the plan but it’s too real, there’s truth and there are lies dressed and frosted, coloured and shaped to masquerade and there is a line; there is a line and this doesn’t merely hover, no, John’s almost certain that this crosses and it feels to raw, this hurts too much, and John would know, John would know.

_It’s just a magic trick._

And maybe they’re brilliant beyond imaging, and this is perfection beyond their wildest dreams.

But maybe, maybe it’s nothing so soft, nothing so endurable.

And the _maybe_ drives his gait as he stumbles into the alleyway, drives the sickness in him upwards until he vomits, until he sobs and shakes and hits the ground once more.

__________________________________________

 

The grey’s turned to black by the time someone—he doesn’t remember who, doesn’t care—guides him to Baker Street and leaves him in his chair, leaves him to his thoughts, to his regrets, to his missteps and his arrogance and his confidence, his loss and his useless heart and the life that won’t stop, that won’t give way; to the roil in his gut, to the too-quiet fog of the flat, of every square meter of the space; to the vibrations of his feet upon the floor and their reverberations, to the way his skin feels so cold for the lack of a gaze, an exhalation, a touch; to the skull, enduring, nothing changed about it, nothing altered as to its angle; to the mugs, two of them, in the sink for the washing, days old, forgotten, _never forgotten_ ; to the open laptop in sleep mode, humming and Mahler’s Second Symphony in pristine condition on the ledge of the window, not a crease, too perfect, too—

Wait.

 _Wait_.

Of all the things Sherlock owns, of all the bits of him that comprise their space, their lives, of all the items, he’s always treated his music, all the aspects of his beloved escape with an almost uncharacteristic care. He is gentle with his violin, for all that he abuses it; he fingers the staves printed out with the notes like a lover, lilting, pencilling notations for posterity, not his own infinite mind, but with a precision, a practiced hand that is different from his normal penmanship, leaves smudges of graphite on the white out of love: few and far between, but always present, evidence of use and attention.

It was how John knew, in the beginning, that Sherlock’s emotions were honest, were genuine, were written in the enamel of his teeth and the marrow of his bones. He knew when Sherlock touched him with tenderness, fingered his skin, his nipples, his ribs with fascinated care. He’d known when Sherlock left fingerprints, red or purple from passion, black with stray ink, kissed into or out of skin with a devotion John couldn’t comprehend, still isn’t sure he fully understands: when John became like the music, John knew for certain that this was true, that this was _more_.

The sheet music by the window, though: there are no scribbles. There are no thumbprints.

Sherlock never loved these pages. John knows that much for certain.

And John is equally certain that there’d been no papers, no score splayed upon the windowsill that morning, he’s certain; he knows it, because he’d stared at that space for hours waiting for his partner to come home, and until the moment that madman had walked out the door and snagged John’s heart in the leaving, John hadn’t parted from his side.

Because John never once heard Sherlock play the piece, these notes.

Because the fucking sheet music isn’t even written for violin, and the title’s underlined in pencil, twice: **_Auferstehung_**.

 _It’s my note_.

It’s all the notes, really. And John, well, his German’s for shit, but it’s enough.

He chokes on a sob, on _yet another sob_ ; one that shakes the tears from his eyes, that blurs the clarinet part—it’s written for _clarinet_ , of course it is; a sob that alters the key signature and smears away the clef; and his throat burns and his chest is tight and his heart is pounding because of the stress and the fear and the joy all at once because there is music here, an omen, a risk and a fucking foolish one at that, but John is grateful, John is _grateful_ and yes, yes.

It is _enough_.


	6. Then There Will Be Nothing I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes is mightier, in a way, than he’s ever been, and yet he’s rarely felt so powerless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my unending gratitude to the brilliant [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) for the Britpicking, the beta-ing, and the joy of her utter stellarness in general. Chapter title credit to [Philip Larkin](http://bestuff.com/stuff/the-winter-palace-philip-larkin), for purposes of _his_ title reference.

Mycroft breathes deep, the cracks in his composure threatening to spread, to widen, as he steadies the shuddering of his muscles, his joints against the lip of his highball glass—already filled thrice, already too close to empty. And If he didn’t know better, he might have feared for the bruising to his ribs, for the way his heart is pummelling, for the way it’s been pummelling, writhing hard inside his chest without rest, without respite.

His eyes slide closed as he swallows, and he prays for the burn to swallow him in kind, the sting of the alcohol to make some impact, to soothe some ache, but it can’t. Won’t.

It’s never been enough for him, much as he longs for it; much as he tries.

He should feel victorious, should be toasting in celebration: a national security breach that a week ago would have required _fieldwork_ , heaven forbid, but his wrists feel weak, he doesn’t know how it will  impact his aim—he’d manoeuvred as he’d never done before from the safety of his desk chair, crafted order solely from the gravitas of his shadow, the threat of his name. 

He is mightier, in a way, than he’s ever been, and yet he’s rarely felt so powerless. 

He remembers Sherlock’s first birthday. Remembers watching those sea-change eyes overtake that tiny face, watching everything, _observing_ everything and threatening to swallow his forehead, his cheeks but inevitably, always coming to settle on Mycroft, on Mycroft’s face, on his hands, reaching, wanting, and Mycroft had never felt like that before, the inexpressible push and tug of that moment. 

Mycroft has never felt it since.

He remembers Sherlock’s first day of school.

He remembers the first time Sherlock’s read Eliot. He’d spent so many years trying to find a common ground with his growing, changing brother, a boy who was leaping over adolescence too quickly, taking all of the awkwardness without the opportunity to grow into it, out of it, and falling straight into manhood before his time. He’d tried Shakespeare, he’d left Milton and Yeats around the house to hear his beloved verses ridiculed in Sherlock’s deepening voice, squeaking on the second syllables every so often, still endearing, and heart-wrenching, for all that it foretold. 

But then there’d been _Eliot_.

Mycroft had finished at University, and though he’d said nothing about the opportunity for a minor position with the Home Office, Sherlock was keen, Sherlock was blood: Sherlock had to know.

If he cared at all, he _had_ to have _seen_.

But nothing was said, and Mycroft was set to depart for London in less than an hour’s time when Sherlock had appeared, his curls a mess, his eyes sunk-in and red-rimmed and his voice unnaturally hoarse when he’d spoken— _”To make an end is to make a beginning,”_ and that voice had cracked, just a little, but not for its changing, no, for something more: _“The end is where we start from, is it not?” ___

__Mycroft hadn’t had time to answer, to breathe, before Sherlock disappeared again. He wishes he’d had more time._ _

__Because he also remembers the first time he watched his brother stop breathing._ _

__Surveillance had been maintained—one of the most advantageous aspects of his promotion—but a team had not been in place, Mycroft had been careful, delicate about his involvement, his concern, low man on the totem pole in his new role, eager not to ruffle feathers. He’d believed that anything too drastic would be caught early. He’d believed that he would always be in time._ _

__He’d walked into the flat, breathed in through the stench of filth and decay just as he watched his brother breathe out, and then still._ _

__He’d never felt as he did in that moment; not before._ _

__Often since._ _

__He feels a taste of it now: the skimmed-surface of it, the dregs._ _

__Mycroft pours from the bottle nearly a full minute before he realises that it’s empty. Been empty._ _

__His fingers tighten on the glass and look to crack it; can, they can, _he_ can—_ _

__To save the glass, the wall, but not his hands he rises, moves, leaves: takes a walk, clears his head._ _

__To save the glass. To save the wall. But not to save his hands._ _

__He’s afraid that the red on those is permanent._ _

_____________________________________________ _

__He’s a block from the Diogenes—he’s breathing deeply, but he still feels stagnant, and his bones ache for reasons he doesn’t wish to plumb; he’s a block away from solitude, from the milling multitudes, when the boy hits into him: an honest mistake, and Mycroft had been distracted. The boy apologises, but Mycroft is keen, feels the hand in the pocket of his coat and says nothing, lets it slip artfully, knows that he has nothing inside of it to be taken._ _

__Once the boy’s out of sight, Mycroft ponders him, knows he looks familiar, the black-and-white version of him, perhaps, one of those homeless teens always flocking toward his brother, investments, he’d said. Mycroft fingers the lining of his pockets and finds the sharp edge of a slip of paper, cuts the pad of his thumb and bites his lip at the shock of pain, the bead of blood he feels soaking into the parchment—yes, it’s thick enough, has heft._ _

__He doesn’t remove his hands from his pockets, for the shaking; doesn’t unfold the note until he’s behind two, three sets of closed doors._ _

___Gratitude has ever been as alien to me as remorse, yet you taught me to build Palaces. No doubt, you will come to find me in yours._ _ _

__Mycroft reads it through again, to be sure, as his heart surges fitfully, hopefully, and he falls into his chair, begins to type._ _

__He acquires the feed, the uplink loading with near-inhuman speed but he still curses the delay, the gap between suspecting, between _knowing_ somewhere useless and seeing, observing: knowing where it _counts_._ _

__The view of _Dvortsovaya Ploshchad_ that splays across his screen arrests something in him, makes something snap in his torso and ricochet as his eyes narrow, as he seeks what he’s looking for among the thankfully-sparse collection of civilians. He knows, and yet does not know what he’s looking for—height, yet some are sitting, leaning; most certainly not black hair, but any other colour would do; hidden, made plain, the man drinking water or the one on his phone, or the one with a sketchpad balanced on his folded knee, looking up, looking down, as he settles in against the Alexander Column and stares at the—_ _

__Sketching._ _

__Mycroft zooms in on the feed._ _

__The man’s hands are hidden in his too-long sleeves as he drags graphite across the paper, his pencil chewed at the end and worn more than halfway down, eroded and pressed perfectly into that palm, that grasp, flecks of black on the page tearing lines, scars across the drawing that should, by all means, convey the hint of onion domes, but instead, instead—_ _

__Instead it’s the stretch of Westminster across the water; it’s that incredible, wheeling circumference that breaks the skyline, and Mycroft can’t inhale for a moment, for all the moments it takes to study the man who is standing in Saint Petersburg, and yet insists on drawing the Thames._ _

__Unruly blonde curls, weighted by grease in that disgusting, yet unfathomable way that artists seem to find attractive._ _

__Glasses, thick black frames. Perched too far down the nose._ _

__High tops, the fashionable kind, over-worn, the toe betraying a slip of white cotton socks, the only kind the index never stocked, not since their childhood, not since Mummy had lamented the stains as irredeemable one time too many, after a day in the grass, a battle with the mud._ _

__Mycroft knows this man. Knows the name attached to him—Horace Sigerson, a silly play on initials, a persona born of Sherlock’s first teetering steps in the art of disguise, and Mycroft stares, he stares until his pulse has raced and gone slow once more, until he can breathe in and the world seems still, until he doesn’t have to fear for the exhale, the waking, the fatal blow: the fall._ _

__His phone chirps at him, and he reads the number before the message, numerical codes so much more efficient, so much safer: subject approaching the Diogenes, non-member, no threat, access granted._ _

__Mycroft keeps the feed live and awaits his guest._ _

_____________________________________________ _

__John Watson’s footsteps echo, announcing his approach. Mycroft finds himself fighting not a smirk, but a grin—buoyed by the image on the screen, but also by the dedication, the loyalty that the gait coming closer betrays, because John Watson is welcome, John Watson is trusted. John Watson is the war and its end and its promised return, and the haven required to heal wounds and regroup between battles, and Mycroft is grateful for him in ways he never could have dreamed._ _

__John’s face is a mask of indifference, of nonchalance as he enters, as the door closes behind him, but the snick of the latch as it shuts is the breaking point, and John’s lungs expand, he breathes in and shudders and his expression turns frantic and hopeful and, perhaps most significantly, terrified, and still, so tired._ _

__“He’s alive.” It’s stated, demanded of the universe in a way that brooks no argument, but in turn, betrays a necessity, a deeply-seated doubt._ _

__It pulls at something in Mycroft’s psyche, in his chest to hear it, to see, and that’s not normal—feeling, It’s not normal for him to want to reach out and alleviate that fear, that hurt, that _need_._ _

__Mycroft slides the note across his desk, slowly, precise, and waits for John to take it, to read. He takes great care in watching John’s face twitch, his eyes widen as he reads through once, twice, three times to make sure before he looks up, meets Mycroft’s eyes across the table and asks more questions than even Mycroft can trace—the loudest, though, the clearest being _please, please, am I right, is he safe?__ _

__And it isn’t _normal_ , not in the slightest, for Mycroft to feel these things. _ _

__It isn’t normal, except when it comes to his _family_._ _

__Mycroft swallows hard before he speaks._ _

__“Method of loci,” Mycroft beckons John to his side of the desk and pushes away, stands from his chair and leaves it open for the heartache, for the worry and the fear still lingering, leaching the colour from John’s face._ _

__“We were walking along the Neva, he just a boy when I showed him,” Mycroft muses softly, lets himself get lost in the recollection of wonder, of relief in Sherlock’s eyes, in the way his breathing had hitched and his eyes had fluttered wildly under their lids as he’d built, as he’d created and grown order from a seedling, made sense of his world anew._ _

__“The Winter Palace,” John whispers, his tone rough, full of a wonder that has nothing to do with any palace, and everything to do with the figure close on the screen, the one rubbing fingers back and forth to blend the shade of the water on his drawing just as John is stroking the glass, the image, his eyes far too bright. “You use the Winter Palace.”_ _

__Mycroft quirks an eyebrow at the quick assemblage of facts. “You do surprise me, Doctor Watson,” and doesn’t he, though—hadn’t he from the first, from rejecting bribes one moment, to doing the unthinkable, saving the life Mycroft has sworn to preserve at all costs, with no promise of compensation or reward; from living with Sherlock Holmes to _loving_ him, John Watson did nothing, save surprise. _ _

__“He’s safe,” John exhales, covers his mouth and stifles a laugh that wants to be a sob but can’t, it seems, not wholly. Not when Horace Sigerson is sketching in Russia; not when Sherlock Holmes is breathing air still, however far away. “He’s _safe _.”___ _

____There’s a tension, a twine wrapped tight, braided fiercely around Mycroft’s chest that loosens with those words, with the breath John Watson draws that seems to take life and rally it; seems to embrace the impossible and sip it like wine._ _ _ _

____“Alive,” John gasps, giggles as he does at crime scenes, as Mycroft’s seen before and wondered at, frowned upon except now he understands, now he _understands_ , and he can’t help but watch with warmth in his eyes as John finds a second glass and opens the whiskey that has appeared to replace the empty bottle Mycroft had abandoned before, pours them both three fingers and slides Mycroft’s glass across the desk before lifting his, offering a toast._ _ _ _

____Mycroft obliges without thinking on it, without pondering hesitation. How very odd._ _ _ _

____“He’s _alive_ , Mycroft. Cheers,” John says as he pulls back, and the both of them are grinning, breathing heavy, overwhelmed as the liquor coats their lips._ _ _ _

____They both see fit to drink to that._ _ _ _


	7. For All That We Will Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If nothing else, John is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He worked through the loss of his beloved Weimaraner, Riley, by practicing clarinet for five hours, every day. He survived his father’s death by burying himself in a strict regimen of medical school applications. He weathered the war by counting the stars every night.
> 
> This, though. This is wholly different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and vodka and peanut butter on muffins to [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) for the Britpicking/beta-ing, as usual.

If nothing else, John is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He worked through the loss of his beloved Weimaraner, Riley,  by practicing clarinet for five hours, every day. He survived his father’s death by burying himself in a strict regimen of medical school applications. He processed Harry’s second bout with alcohol poisoning by making it a point to outshine his fellows at Barts in whatever task was put to him. He weathered the war by counting the stars every night.

This, though. This is wholly different.

He spends the first few days staring into nothingness, blinking, and it’s very much a process of mourning because there has indeed been a loss, a loss so tangible that John feels it sticking to the walls of his chest when he breathes in too deep and it hurts, it presses in on everything and John might cry if he thought it would help at all, but it won’t.

He doesn’t move from the chair until his toes get cold.

From there, he decides on a schedule. He calls Ella and makes an appointment—grudgingly, but it’s the little things, the inanities that make the act convincing; it’s the structure that will keep him from driving himself mad. He calls in to work and asks if he can have an extra week off and they give it to him without much hassle. He makes tea in the morning in his own mug. He goes for a walk regardless of the weather. He avoids St. Bart’s like the plague. 

He visits Sherlock’s grave every second day, because it helps him keep track of the days of the week; else it all blends together. He doesn’t talk to the headstone, not like the first time. He just closes his eyes and breathes for a handful of moments, never stays very long, and then takes his leave.

He reads, sometimes in his chair, sometimes in bed, where he can still smell the tangled scent of Sherlock mingling with his own, stale but strong where it gathers at the corner of his eye; sometimes at the cafe down the street, and once in Sherlock’s chair, but only once.

Just the one time. 

John resolves to ignore Greg’s texts and phone calls, his apologies and his offers of a pint for the first two weeks. He resolves never to look Molly in the eye, because he knows, _knows_ she was involved, had to be, and neither of them can afford to give themselves away.

He makes himself tea at the end of the day, in Sherlock’s cup, and savours it.

He sleeps in the middle of the bed, and tries to feel less lonely, tries to ignore the heavy thumping of his heart for all the worry, for all the fear, for the way he buries his head into the pillow, the scent of Sherlock’s shampoo. 

He dreams of falling and failing and Sherlock’s eyes and the wisp of his breath on John’s collarbone, of gasping and screaming and shared heat and Mahler, and he never wakes up before sunrise, because just as he’s about to startle into consciousness Sherlock’s lips consume his own and he can feel Sherlock’s pulse where he cups his cheek and he can taste it when Sherlock whispers _You are essential_ , when he moans _I hold you dearer_ , when he vows _More than you can imagine_ , and John gives in, of course he does, and he doesn’t ever wake.

But the sun does rise. The day does start. John drops a tea bag into his RAMC mug, runs his thumb against the chip in the handle, a battle scar from one particularly glorious morning pressed up against the kitchen table. He breathes in, blinks, breathes out. Takes a sip.

Day number nine.

Routine.

__________________________________

It’s already been three weeks, when it starts.

Three weeks, two days, and six hours. About ten minutes.

Ten visits to the cemetery.

Of course John’s been counting.

And maybe it’s because it sticks out so clearly against the black of the stone. Maybe it’s because John’s seen pictures of it before, but never encountered it in person. Maybe, it’s the fact that like everything else in John’s life now, it feels wrong. Out of place.

He wonders who sent them, wonders who in god’s name would send flowers to Sherlock’s grave. Molly, perhaps. Maybe the Homeless Network, a few buds nicked from the corner florist in salute. He shakes the indignation, the sense that if _anyone_ is allowed to adorn this grave, it’s _him_ ; it’s silly. Foolish.

They’re just _flowers_.

And yet, that small bundle of lotus blossoms splinters in John’s mind, and stays there.

__________________________________

He dreams of falling and failing and Sherlock’s eyes.

Because the universe isn’t cruel, the universe isn’t _anything_ , really; it merely is, and that’s enough, and there is balance, maybe, or something like justice, equilibrium at the end of all things and once his heart is already racing, once he’s screaming for Sherlock as he takes flight, that coat billowing like wings and shadow and sheets of rain in the dark—once he blinks there are the eyes, that quicksilver stare that is light and relief and home, now, all of the marrow of life caught up and contained, and it’s exquisite, and John can’t breathe, it hurts. Sherlock’s mouth is at his neck, sucking at the pulse that pounds there, tonguing it like he can taste John’s being through the skin and the blood underneath before he goes lower, trails fingertips below the line of John’s shirt, and suddenly it’s the first night, it’s the first moment they did this, the first time they were close and John’s sweaty and exhausted, and Sherlock’s pale and tense, and both their chests are heaving not just for this, not only this as Sherlock whispers _Never again, you can’t do that, I won’t allow it, you can’t—_ and John leans in when Sherlock exhales into the hollow of his throat, trembling; when Sherlock bows his head beneath John’s chin and gasps, and John brushes his lips to Sherlock’s head, his temple, his brow and murmurs _Kiss me_ because that’s all that he wants, all that he can manage with leftover adrenaline and the lingering sheen of redred _red_ over everything, laser sights and blood and rage, and he wants to hear Sherlock’s voice, he wants to drown out the din, the words fed into his skull with so much menace, so much hate, _burn the heart, the heart, the heart_ —

John gasps for air as he surfaces, comes to consciousness with just the barest glow of morning on the horizon outside. His cheeks are wet, his chest burning, and he knew this would be difficult. He knew that being without Sherlock, his best friend, his partner, his lover, his world: he knew that would be hard, that he would miss Sherlock like a limb.

But he hasn’t expected this, exactly. He hadn’t braced for the sear in his own chest. The hollow feeling in his own stomach, his own soul.

He rubs his hands across his face and inhales long, slow; he lets the air rattle around with every pump of that furious, fiery muscle at his core and he forces his legs to unfold, his feet to hit the ground, his bones to support his weight.

Day number twenty-four.

But _fuck_ , it hurts to breathe.

__________________________________

It takes two more visits to the graveyard before the flowers start to brown; three before the groundskeeper bins them. John feels more comfortable with the blankness, the simple polished stone—empty. No news is good news.

And there’s been no news. There’s been _no news_ and John has to remind his legs not to shake in the shower every morning when he thinks on it too long, because he’s always been better, always been stronger in the face of inevitable ends, rather than loose ones.

No news is good news, and he has to keep himself from texting Mycroft at least three times a day; keep himself from begging for information that doesn’t exist.

No news.

John turns on his heel and sets himself a schedule for breathing in the two minutes and forty-six second it takes to walk away. In. Out. In Out.

Hold.

And again.  
__________________________________

On his next visit, however, he’s not alone.

There’s a familiar figure near the trees, and a new bouquet at the foot of Sherlock’s grave. Irises. John swallows; the fact of these flowers, these unknown tokens—the fact of them disturbs him, and he isn’t sure why. Disturbs him deeper than just the sharp pain that arrests him as he tries not to think of the night he ripped the buttons off a shirt just a little deeper in shade than the blossoms, a little softer in texture than those petals on the stone; tries not to remember the fluttering of Sherlock’s heartbeat under his lips as he mouthed his way down that pale chest.

“It’s good of you,” Mycroft states, cuts through the recollection from where he stands, stoic, as John approaches. “To send the flowers.”

The elder Holmes’  grip is too tight around the handle of his umbrella. John takes a moment to process the comment, the words that make no sense.

“What?”

“For the grave.” Mycroft says slowly, and it’s almost as bad, almost worst than the way Sherlock always indicated his idiocy, the slowness of his mind—it’s degrading, and it makes John ache for his partner so much his knees tremble in that moment, just for a time. 

“It fulfils social expectations, of course,” Mycroft continues, eyes on his shoes as he presses in his cuticles, distracted, cowed somehow, and that seems just as wrong as anything. “But it’s a commemoration of everything he was,” Mycroft says, declares with a certain even-toned pride; “everything now under scrutiny.”

“Not to mention that the man in that casket was rather skilled at this job, he deserves some sort of tribute,” Mycroft tags on when John says nothing, but John can’t even comment, can’t even process the idea of the poor young operative undoubtedly buried underneath their feet, keeping Sherlock safe for the sham of it all. 

No, John just stares at the blossoms and tries to make sense of things, tries to observe as he sees, tries to take everything that’s in his mind and in his heart of the man who dominates the two and harness it, put it to some use. 

In the end, all John manages to muster is a lingering sense of longing, a debilitating ache; a nausea in his stomach and a dryness in his throat.

Goddamnit. 

In the end, all John can manage is to say, quite simply: “I haven’t sent any flowers.”  
__________________________________

When push comes to shove, the lesson to take away from all this mostly coalesces around the fact that Mycroft Holmes is efficient. Ineffably so.

Within half an hour of discovering the flowers aren’t John’s nod to protocol, to the role he’s doomed himself to play, Mycroft’s discovered that the bouquets are purchased from Gainsborough’s via familiar IP addresses, are consistently delivered later than indicated in the order summaries by approximately 1.21 days, and are charged to John Watson’s Barclaycard.

All of which settles just a little bit wrong, to be honest.

They spend a good few hours hypothesising as to the meaning, the source—they rule out Moriarty’s men quicker than John’s comfortable with, but Mycroft’s logic is sound: if they’re being toyed with, they could just as easily be killed, and yet the two of them are still breathing. Which leaves just the one prevailing theory.

Of course, they both want to believe that it’s _him_ , and beyond the realm of indulgence, it makes the most sense. Sherlock would have know-how, he’d have the means, he wouldn’t even have to hack John’s accounts because he knows them, all of them. 

And who else would be sending flowers, from John, to the grave of a disgraced genius, a so-called fraud?

Lotus. Iris. They break down the words, the letters, looking for acronyms and anagrams and clues. Mycroft runs it through as many databases as he can without raising eyebrows, searching for esoteric connections, historical associations, vague symbolisms; they filter it through Sherlock’s favoured (and least favoured) encryptions, and then they run it through every other cipher known to man, but nothing comes through, nothing makes _sense_ for all that they work on it, for all that they throw at it. 

For all that they _will_ it to unravel.

Mind, John suspects he’ll never forget the exact pitch of Mycroft’s voice as he asked—after six hours of searching and seven fingers of scotch, all told—whether there was a reason for Sherlock to communicate the sentiments of purity, chastity or eloquence to John in this circumstance; won’t forget the look of vague disgust on Mycroft's face as he browsed a wiki site on the Language of Flowers. And John, predictably, gets a mental flash upon processing the question, a vivid image behind his eyes of his better half, gloriously naked on their ruined bedsheets as the normally-articulate detective began sentences without finishing them, devolving into vowel sounds that echoed in his wide-blown eyes when John licked him clean, when John tongued his nipples, when John silenced him with his mouth and John doesn’t bother with embarrassment as he flushes just a little with longing, with _want_ because Mycroft’s uncomfortable enough for the two of them, and John lets himself laugh at it.

Because Sherlock would have laughed.


	8. Something Equally Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve cracked it, and Sherlock—who loves John across the distance, despite everything, who is loyal, who promises the very opposite of never coming home, etched in transient blossoms at an empty grave: Sherlock is out there.
> 
> Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock.

“That’s victim number five in less than a month. I won’t pretend I don’t feel...”

Greg trails off, chews his lip to distract his eyes from their stinging, to give his nerve endings something else to rally toward. It’s cold. Of course it’s cold, here.

It’s become a routine. He tells no one. 

“You’d have solved it. Obviously.”

The stone doesn’t talk back, of course.

Greg sighs, and eyes up the latest decoration for the grave: it had been carnations, last week: love, in the line of vaguely heart-rending romantic gestures from what could only be Sherlock’s grieving partner, made all the more tragic for the fact that if anyone’s got a stiff upper lip, it’s John Watson. But this week’s different. Same colour, but the blossom itself—

Greg has done things he’s not proud of, stooped to levels he doesn’t like to think on in trying to salvage and sabotage his marriage, depending on the day. He knows things no self-respecting man should know without having to look it up, just ingrained in his psyche like the alphabet and “God Save The Queen.”

So yeah, Greg knows what flowers mean. In more than one language, for that matter—his wife had responded well to the sushi dinner so he thought, maybe it was a cultural affinity, maybe he should stick with the motif.

He’d been wrong, ultimately, but he’s not afraid to admit that he often is. Wrong.

But this, though. _This_ flower, well. _This_ flower changes the game, just a bit.

__________________________________

John generally accepts the weekly pub-nights with Greg as his penance for being the one to cook up this scheme in the first place. Because he likes Greg, he truly does; thinks of him as a friend without hesitation, and it’s a test of John’s moral compass—if not so much his capacity for falsehoods—to keep Greg in the dark when the man’s obviously miserable, visibly straining under the weight of guilt and sorrow and all the what-ifs and had-I-onlys. 

And John, well, John can certainly sympathise. 

Greg drinks more than John, because John has pretences to uphold and he cannot risk being beyond his faculties. He cannot risk a mistake, not in this. So it’s on Greg’s sixth pint, and John’s second—and Greg’s ordered two vodka tonics where John’s stuck to beer—when Greg starts nattering about the cemetery, and John’s grateful he’s only nursed his stout, for the way his stomach sinks, pitches, heaves.

John resolutely refuses to make eye-contact as Greg relays his conversations with the gravestone, and John can’t help the untenable, absolutely preposterous surge of jealousy, of possessiveness— _that is mine, he is mine and I alone will speak to his memory, goddamnit_—that rears its head for just an instant as Greg tells him how he takes the worst cases, the unsolvable ones that are staying that way for the first time in a very long time, and sometimes he gets a breakthrough, just saying it all aloud, but mostly, he just stands and stares and speaks and lets himself feel far too cold for his own good, for far too many hours in the night.

John zones out, calms his nerves, tells himself he’s being ridiculous and shames himself for a fool, until the words from Greg’s mouth stop making any real sense. John lets his mind wander for a time, but then something grabs him, yanks him back.

“Never pegged the two of you for that kind of thing,” Greg says conversationally, as if commenting on the forecast, his consonants slurring terribly; “but hey, at least it worked for one of us. I assume it was him who thought the plain boring English version was too pedestrian, yeah?” Greg rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he fixes his bleary gaze on the ceiling. “God forbid an iris mean just the one thing...”

“Excuse me?” The question’s out before John can reel it in, before he can backtrack and make sense on his own. 

“Well, it’s that Japanese flower thingy, with all the special,” Greg gestures with his hands, and John’s  face must betray him, because Greg’s expression sobers, the tipsy gleam in his eyes shifts a bit, unbidden, and Greg straightens, cheeks pinched, lips thin.

“Fuck,” Greg  hisses, hand tight on his drink. “I’m sorry, John. Jesus,” he shakes his head, and his eyes look sad when he meets John’s gaze, but that’s as far as John follows it, because he’s raw, and he’s juxtaposing Greg’s comments, his off-handed, absolutely pissed babble against the work he and Mycroft had been poring over for _weeks_.

“No, no, it’s—”

“If you so much as _think_ the word ‘fine,’ John Watson,” Greg warns him, and John bites his lip against the urge to laugh because this might be the answer, Greg fucking Lestrade may have just solved their mystery in one fell swoop.

“Right,” John forces out, hopes the vaguely-strangled quality of his voice passes for anger, or better, sorrow. “It’s, well,” he fumbles, stands up. “Right. I’ve got to run.”

“John, wait,” Greg protests, eyes clearer, the regret in them clear.

“I’m not angry,” John tries to convince him, makes himself think about the thing he tries his best to pass off as a dream, lets himself shudder, wince when he thinks about dead eyes and blood on the pavement, because the act is what matters. It was all for nothing without the act.  “Really, I’m not. Let’s aim for next week, same time?”

Greg looks mollified if still hesitant, apologetic as he draws back. “Sure.”

John doesn’t look to see how much he tosses on the bar; he’s too focused on giving nothing away, on not allowing his eyes to shine, or his lips to quirk, or the bounding of his pulse to show at the neck.

“On me,” he nods at Greg, and it takes everything John has to walk calmly, not to run out the door.  
__________________________________

“The language of flowers.” 

In retrospect, John—who is gasping just a little, having damn near sprinted from the cab to the Diogenes with just a bit of fire in his veins—could probably have announced himself to Mycroft more intelligibly, but it isn’t as if the bastard didn’t know John was on the way.

“We’ve walked that road to no avail, as you know,” Mycroft drawls, never looking up from the _Evening Standard_. “Useless sentimentality, John, and by no means a passable explanation for your presence here at,” Mycroft glances at his wrist vacantly, “half one in the morning.”

“No, not _our_ language,” John smiles and moves to round the desk; Mycroft sighs, and finally looks up: mostly perturbed, but John’s learning to read his tells, eerily similar to Sherlock’s now and again. John can see the wrinkle in his brow that keeps either one from quirking with curiosity, in askance. 

“John,” he starts, but fumbles when John reaches across him and types at his keyboard. John smirks at the flabbergasted expression that Mycroft can’t quite tame and feels doubly-smug for just the moment.

“Hanakotoba,” because John had looked it up on his phone on the way; “the _Japanese_ language of flowers.”

“Extra meanings,” he announces as the webpage loads, revealing alternate, supplemental associations for the blossoms they’d received, cast anew in a foreign light. 

“And an explanation for this,” he scrolls to that scarlet demon that’s been plaguing his thoughts for the better part of a week—not quite a stranger to him, he knows them from the fringes of the desert, remembers their spindly tendrils, their nearly-sinister sprawl, too much like a splatter of something equally red. 

Lycoris. Red spider lily. Because they’d applied all their methods to the two subsequent deliveries, aching for a breakthrough and coming up cold, and John had searched for hours, trying to find a reason for this blossom that coincided with their theories, that made sense on its own and even more, brought _sense_ to this whole charade at large.

And when he’d queued up reading on the ride over, there had been sense. The lotus was no longer just purity, eloquence, chastity—it was longing, _far from the one he loves_ , and it lingered in the rhythm of John’s  heart for how it ached. The iris wasn’t good news or glad tidings alone, anymore, but something that made more sense for this, for _them_ — _loyalty_. The carnation is the same, and that fits; he’s embarrassed by the galloping in his chest when he acknowledges that it _fits_ , but then there’s the last flower.

Then there’s the red spider lily, which meant nothing at all, really, in any English flower language—a plain red lily meant high-souled aspirations, but there was a precision here, there was a precision to the man he loved and that was not it, that _wasn’t it_ ; the red spider lily lived halfway down the list, simple, proud— _radiata_.

 _Abandonment_. _Lost memory_.

_Never to meet again._

“Of course, it’s not particularly heartening,” John admits out loud, swallowing around the implications he doesn’t understand, the lance that’s stuck low in his windpipe, not far enough to stop but deep enough to sting. 

“No,” Mycroft finally speaks, makes himself known again and John whirls, catches his expression slipping back from uncharacteristic openness, a certain spark in his eyes that’s not just the light from the desktop display and he licks at his bottom lip, subconscious, the flickering of his pupils just like his brother, just the same when they’re gathering information and piecing together puzzles, raking up the pieces from every neural pathway all at once; “no, it wouldn’t be.”

John can’t help but suck in a breath that teeters on the sliver in his throat, that’s ready to plunge deeper or expel depending on the answer that comes in reply: “What is it?”

Mycroft folds his hands in front of his lips and narrows his eyes, seeing nothing but what goes on behind them, sighing deep before he speaks.

“I believe that it’s a signal,” his gazes flickers from the screen to John, and his stare is apologetic and self-censuring and yet, and _yet_ he is Sherlock’s brother, and their lips quirk just the same when the game is afoot, and John can’t help the way his blood races at the sight of it, at the cue. “One I was too distracted to note.”

Mycroft shifts his posture, and John responds immediately by getting out of his way as he slides in behind the keyboard. “Sherlock and I,” Mycroft explains as he studies the screen, the information, as he types and scans, looks for correlating evidence, checks for flaws in the framework; “we’ve long managed to coexist peacefully by communicating our intentions inversely.”

“Right,” John answers slow, a little skeptical, but not too much. Not with these two. 

Mycroft’s eyes flicker upward. “When I come to him with a case, and I tell him that it’s urgent, it never is.”

“You’re joking.”

Mycroft manages some strange approximation of a shrug before turning back to the monitor. “When I really need his help, I’ll leave enough hints for him to come to me about it on his own,” Mycroft quirks his head, but doesn’t look back toward John: “One would think you’d have picked up on that by now.”

“Plays to both of your whims, doesn’t it?” John counters, choosing to ignore the jibe. “He gets to deny you, and you get his enthusiastic cooperation.” John thinks back on all the times he’d gotten a really fabulous shag out of Sherlock’s irritation regarding his brother’s nagging, and he can’t help but wonder whether Mycroft was playing the unwitting wingman all along.

Or perhaps, more disturbingly, the absolutely _witting_ one.

“Indeed,” Mycroft answers, a little too smug.

John chooses not to pursue that line of thought.

“So, he sent this,” John points at the image on the screen, the _red_ , and tries not to hope too hard, “to signify the opposite?”

“I assume,” Mycroft nods. “It would hardly seem prudent to send flowers to tell you he’s never coming back,” and by god, if Mycroft Holmes doesn’t turn to John and smirk just a tad, all the self-congratulation wiped from his expression; commiserating, almost. Reassuring.

The world John inhabits is infinitely strange.

“But I suspect they also signify an ending, a pattern,” Mycroft continues, the moment gone. “If the final element of the sequence negates what precedes it, the encoded information is to be interpreted inversely.”

“Seems inefficient,” John comments idly, “to wait until the end to know whether or not the rest of it was false.”

Mycroft’s eyes darken just a tad, and John hopes that one day he’ll meet the extended Holmes family, because it has to be a trait inherited from one side or the other: that look that says so very plainly _you’re an idiot, and I do wonder if you can even process language at all_. 

“It seems rather contradictory,” Mycroft spells out slowly, with far too many hairs of condescension, “to adhere to a paradigm of expediency when discretion is the primary goal.”

“Of course the two of you just thought to go about it with any sort of sense,” John rolls his eyes, lets it go. “And the others?” he points toward the first three flowers, the lotus, the iris, the carnation.

“Still sentiments you’d be expected to express, if your actions were traced, which they’ve likely been, by now,” Mycroft reels off distractedly. “It smacks of a very typical grief, for all intents and purposes. It would fool even the most interested of observers, I suspect. People see what they wish to see.”

And doesn’t John know that, hasn’t John heard that, didn’t John pass that trial by fire with Sherlock’s skin beneath his lips: _You see me as more than I am_ that voice had moaned, those fingers had clutched, that heart had raced; _I am wrong, I am wrong, and you’ll see it, you’ll see it and you’ll—_

 _No_ , John had whispered into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, had drawn back to meet his eyes and watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest; _no, I see you, and I couldn’t run from you any more than I could take the bones from my body and still stand._

“Japanese,” Mycroft muses, drawing John back to the present. “He sent the first order from South Korea.”

“And how on earth do you figure that?”

Mycroft’s face softens instantly, though John doesn’t suspect the man knows it. 

“Sherlock committed a map to memory at the age of three. It had been taped together, and incorrectly so, leaving Japan and South Korea overlapped to the point where they appeared as a single landmass. He exhibited his error in our father’s study, when we’d gone to look for sweets near his liquor cabinet.” Mycroft’s lips quirk again, but it’s obvious he knows when _that_ happens. “I’ve taken it upon myself to be certain he never forgets it.”

“He sent the first flowers weeks ago,” John says, focuses on the drop of sinking despair in his stomach when he realises how cold their trail is; decidedly _doesn’t_ imagine a three-year-old Sherlock pointing at a globe.

“There is significance, here,” Mycroft tells him, a little unyielding, a little cold. “For now, it  is enough to know that he is safe.”

John wonders which of them Mycroft is trying to convince. 

“It is _enough_ , John.”

Both of them, then. Trying to convince them both.

John nods, because it’s a moot point. “I’ll just show myself out, then?”

Mycroft is still, quiet. “You’re welcome to stay,” he finally manages, and he looks awkward, unsure. “If you’d like.”

And there is so much about this, about everything that is his reality now that he’s unsure of, that he’s navigating by instinct alone and he tries, he tries his _damnedest_ to trust in this moment that if there’s anything John was born to do, if there’s anything that he seems inordinately equipped for in his very marrow, it’s understanding a Holmes.

“Well, then,” John rubs his hands together, purses his lips and comes to the only conclusion there is: “Tea?”

Mycroft relaxes almost imperceptibly and, surprisingly, stands up. “There’s a kitchenette through here,” he says, and leads the way.

__________________________________

“Tell me about the two of you,” John states it without preamble as he blows across his tea.

Mycroft looks up from stirring his cuppa, which has formed a veritable whirlpool in the middle. “Hmmm?”

“He hinted at it a million times, whatever...” John struggles to find a word for the way Sherlock’s expression would crumble and shutter all at once; “transpired to make things so tense.” And there, right there, Mycroft’s face does the very same thing. “But there are so many layers, and it’s obvious that the two of you...”

“The two of us what?” Mycroft demands, short. Curt.

“That you love each other,” John says it, as simply as he can, because he doesn’t struggle with that concept, it’s so obvious, it’s so clear and yet he’s never said it aloud to Sherlock for the same reasons that Mycroft confirms: the elder Holmes flinches as the words come out, as they reverberate—flinches as if they’re acid, as if they truly cause pain. “That beneath all the verbal jousting you’re close enough for him to know that you needed a cheesecake delivered after that mess in Syria. For you to know when to send Angelo over with takeaway and a tiramisu that he eats _every_ time, without complaint.”

Mycroft is quiet. John sips his tea; it could use a sugar, but he doesn’t want to break the still. 

“It’s not nearly as dramatic as you’ve no doubt envisioned,” Mycroft finally concedes. “We were very close, as children,” John watches the way Mycroft’s throat works too much when he swallows, too tight.

“He was so very bright,” Mycroft continues, just a touch whimsical; “and he followed me everywhere. And I adored him.” And that might be the most honest thing John’s ever heard come out of that mouth.

“He felt abandoned when I left for university,” Mycroft tells him, his tone softer now. “I did everything I could to spend what time I had with him, to aid in his struggles. I worried for him, he was so different.” Mycroft ducks his head and takes a drink, and John aches for two younger boys, aches the same for the grown man across from him as much as he aches for the one who lives and beats beneath his ribs for all the distance now, for all the miles in between.

“It was complicated, after our father died,” Mycroft adds, and John knows what he needs to about the Holmes patriarch—it’s a gap in their shared history that Sherlock isn’t ready to fill just yet, and John’s never pushed, and he knows that he’s right to resist the urge for the way that Sherlock kisses him when he can pry and chooses not to, for the way Sherlock’s lips devour him and he holds John closer than a body should be able to stand.

“The drugs were not a surprise,” Mycroft’s words are just above a whisper, and John’s jaw clenches against his will. “That didn’t make it,” Mycroft’s voice falters, just a bit; “easy.”

“I reacted in ways that were perhaps overbearing, perhaps ill-advised,” Mycroft’s voice recovers its strength, reclaims its authority. “They achieved their goal, they kept my brother breathing,” he’s not sorry, and maybe he shouldn’t be, not for all of it, and John has to wonder what he’d do for Sherlock, feeling as he does now, had he known the man back then, has to wonder what lines he’d cross for that life, to keep him.

“I didn’t know what else,” Mycroft starts, a little lost again, but John cuts him off, spares him the explanation of things that can’t be said, that can’t be done any justice in words.

“No, I understand. Harry, she’s,” John clears his throat, tries not to imagine Sherlock’s face on his sister’s unconscious body on the wood floor, in the hospital beds time and again; tries, and fails. “I understand.”

Mycroft nods, maybe grateful, maybe tired, maybe just a reflex. “It’s been strained ever since.”

John nods, equally ambiguous, and they finish their tea without any more words.

__________________________________

 

“The language, the language,” John repeats to himself, the last cup of tea that accompanied him back from the kitchen gone cold at his side. 

“Must you mumble?” Mycroft asks from across the desk, but John’s practiced in ignoring Holmeses. 

“The _language_ ,” John rubs his hands over his face, growling for a moment in frustration before his expression goes slack and he springs to his feet.

“Give me that,” he says as he rips a printout from Mycroft’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asks him, standing and coming around to John, peering over John’s shoulder to watch the pattern of John’s pen across the typeface. 

John draws arrows, scribbles for a moment before tossing the pen down with a curse. “I was trying to fit acronyms, using the revised meanings, but, nothing.” He shakes his head and steps away, paces agitatedly.

“Wait.” 

He turns to see Mycroft bending over the paper in his place, reaching for the discarded pen and underlining, making notations, nonsense words that John doesn’t know but that sound like, in his head—

“Romanization systems,” Mycroft confirms as he writes: _renge_ next to lotus, _ayame_ under iris, _keneshon_ by the carnation and the last, his blood spray: _higanbana_.

“Sherlock always favoured the Nihon-shiki, but I worked the government,” Mycroft says, circling letters, spelling one word before stepping back; “it’s more common to see the Hepburn.”

John leans over, greedy: eager. Hopeful.

“Rakh?” John reads out. “Iran? Is he telling us—”

“It’s sloppy,” Mycroft interrupts, shaking his head. “Too much of a risk.”

“The inverse?” John asks, it has to be, except: “Hkar doesn’t exist, does it?”

“The inverse,” and now it’s Mycroft mumbling, repeating as he takes three steps to the left, retraces them back toward the right, “the inverse...”

“Inverse,” John joins in. “Numbers, inverse always makes me think of maths,” and that’s it.

That is absolutely _it_.

“Coordinates,” John says, and he can feel his eyes widening just before Mycroft’s follow suit. “Flip them.”

Mycroft slides in behind his computer screen and types with inhuman speed, summoning GPS and inverting the coordinates until—

“What do we know about Leningrad Oblast?”

Mycroft grins— _truly_ grins, and looks a decade younger for it, at least—as he reaches for his phone. “Less now than we’ll know in approximately 20 minutes.”

__________________________________

“Here.”

John snaps to wakefulness, and winces as his back protests for the way he’d drifted off, slouched over translations of recent news stories from Russia, anything to place Sherlock there in recent weeks after Saint Petersburg. He looks up, and sees Mycroft holding out a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. John takes both with a grateful grimace.

“I don’t have a bed here, but there’s a very comfortable chaise just through there,” Mycroft inclines his head toward the door that led to the hallway where the kitchenette was attached.

“I’m fine,” John answers sternly as he swallows the pills, and a yawn.

“I don’t doubt it,” Mycroft nods. “However, should you find that your situation changes, then,” he cocks his head again indicatively; “through that door.”

John grunts and gets back to his reading, and Mycroft settles again behind his desk and rolls the cuffs of his shirt up just a bit higher before tackling his own research.

And John, for all the dark edges to his vision, doesn’t give in to sleep again. Because they’ve cracked it.

They’ve cracked it, and Sherlock—who loves John across the distance, despite everything, who is loyal, who promises the very opposite of never coming home, etched in transient blossoms at an empty grave: Sherlock is out there.

Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock.

John inhales deep, gulps down the last of the water, and keeps reading. 

__________________________________

The truth is: Greg Lestrade is absolutely one of those people who likes a good frou-frou coffee now and again. Treats himself with a cinnamon dolce macchiato after a job well done. Or a job well-fucked. Either, really. Both.

It’s nothing to be embarrassed of, but he doesn’t advertise it. His colleagues certainly don’t know that he shells out three quid for the good stuff more often than he’s entirely comfortable with. It’s a coping mechanism, a pat on his own back, depending on the day—and if he’s used it as the former more often in the past few months than ever before, well, then he should be proud it’s not the pub he’s turning to so often, and the rest of the Yard need never know the difference.

Which is why it seems strange—very strange—when a very large cup that smells like a macchiato, and tastes very much like a macchiato, and is still _hot_ as a macchiato ought to be, is found sitting on his desk when he gets into the office. Part of him wants to be suspicious of it, but he made a deal with himself long ago that if poisoned edibles were what got him in the end, that was a fair enough trade.

Not to mention he’s fucking _exhausted_ , and his head is still pounding with the after-effects of making a right arse of himself in front of John Watson the night before, so he’s not going to look a damned gift horse in the mouth. Not this morning. 

But the fact remains: there’s really only one person who could have figured out his exact coffee preferences like that.

Greg finishes his cinnamon dolce, and feels inexplicably lighter.


	9. A Noose Too Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And John is struck, suddenly, by just how different his world is, now. The realisation makes him want to shudder, but he swallows hard; he fights it.
> 
> He fights it, and wins.

All said, it takes eighteen weeks. Four and a half months. One hundred and twenty-six days that feel like a lifetime, that feel like death and dying and rising again with every delivery, every bouquet slung innocent against the black stone: a buoy in the ocean, a hand outstretched to pull him back and hold him, hold him because he’s cold and he doesn’t remember the feel of an embrace, _that_ embrace. He’s starting to forget.

John doesn’t pretend that his nights aren’t spent with tears and a bottle, now and again across those weeks. He doesn’t pretend he’s broken any less than five glasses against the wall in a fit of rage. He doesn’t pretend that his own shampoo ran out before he switched to Sherlock’s, just so that he could place the scent of it back on the pillows.

John doesn’t pretend his heart’s anything less than broken, really; doesn’t pretend it makes him feel any better to think on the alternative, to imagine what it would feel like if the body on the pavement had been as bereft of life as it had _felt_ , if the way he’d felt dizzy and his heart had pumped all wrong for those hours of unknowing on that first day—it doesn’t help to think about that, doesn’t mean anything when he chides his own mind and reminds himself to be grateful.

Eighteen weeks. 

It turns out the patterns have more clues than they’d bargained for. After the spider lilies, after Rakh, John finds the little bird-like blossoms, like hope except it’s sharp, beautiful and treacherous and— _pecteilis radiata_. The fringed orchid. The White Egret. _Sagiso_ , and just as it portends, Sherlock follows John into his dreams: Sherlock’s mouth on his neck, on his chest, the insides of his thighs but more, Sherlock’s fingertips separating his own fingers and fitting their hands together. Sherlock’s warmth in all the places he seems cold if you don’t know where to look. Sherlock’s sigh when John draws him close, like he’s missed this always and finding it still surprises him. Sherlock's breath in deep, ponderous shifts as he hovers on the edge of sleep against John’s body, in John’s arms. 

John doesn’t sleep for the next three nights, calls off work that Friday.

The next week, he laughs, because the Amaryllis— _amaririsu_ , shy—is all that Sherlock is and isn’t; he remembers the third time they’d slept together, come together with tongues and teeth and the sweat on their skin; he remembers the way that Sherlock trembled, out of nowhere, the way he’d stammered and his hands had shook and he’d looked at John with the widest of eyes, terrified as he’d spoke John’s name, as he’d whispered _please_ , and _this_ , and _I can’t go back_ and _I’m sorry_ before John had stopped the words with his lips and breathed back: _Never sorry. Not for this_.

John drinks himself to sleep because he can’t handle a dream about that night, or the nights that followed.

Next, it’s tulips, red ones for trust— _chūrippu_ ; and then finally, ambrosia, piety—a bit outside their context, and that’s how they narrow down the extra layer of meaning, the hidden clues. It’s anomalous, and it’s late—the end of a sequence—but it also implies the theme of Sherlock’s activities in a given place, where they should be looking to find what he’s been up to. 

By inverting Šaca’s coordinates, they’re left in Saudi Arabia, with the closest major city a stretch at Al-Kharj—piety, though, is what confirms it, because Mycroft quickly uncovers a recent scandal in Riyadh with the Mutaween that was uncovered by some anonymous tip just weeks prior. 

John breathes easier, somehow, but it doesn’t last long. 

Then it’s Dahlias, edelweiss, forget-me-nots, anemones, and lavender—faithful, which,  yes, John hopes that’s a given, but no, it’s late, and when they take Tewar and flip its points they move from India to the middle of the Barents; closest landmass is Svalbard, and it’s infidelity that comes up in the police reports of an unsolved triple homicide in one of the safest places on earth. Allegations that the husband, as well as the mistress, were involved in an international crime ring are, at this time, strictly speculation.

Mycroft, however, takes it upon himself to muster his resources and substantiates that speculation into fact within twenty-four hours, once they solve the third riddle.

But of course, with the solving of one mystery, so comes another, and if John allows himself an instant to feel frustrated, he quashes it swiftly because it means Sherlock is alive, and well, and as safe as he can be and that is all that John cares about, in the end. That’s all that keeps him going.

Thus, round four: aster blossoms first, then erica, red camellias, and...holly. _Hōrii_.

Single, and looking.

Before John can bother with the untenable jealousy, the bristling, the offence, Mycroft's got them a location: relative proximity, Cape Guardafui. Somalia. Mycroft turns up the imprisoned son of a Puntland government official within three hours, and notes that he was apprehended for drug trafficking to the UK while meeting his betrothed for the first time. Horrid impression on the poor woman’s family, as it happened.

John shivers in his bed that night, because it’s cold. Not for any other reason.

It starts again, and John reminds himself it’s good—it’s good, it’s _good_. Bluebells, tiger lilies, chrysanthemums, morning glories, and then—tiger lilies. Again. 

Wealth. Twice.

John’s staring at the orange fronds like they’re Aramaic, or antimatter held steady, when his mobile rings.

“John.” Mycroft’s voice is tight across the line, tense.

“They were,” John starts, but Mycroft answers, cuts him off.

“Yes. Again.”

“Repetition.” John swallows hard, because—dull. Boring.

 _Repetition_.

Shit.

“Indeed,” Mycroft breathes out slowly, is quiet for too many moments. “John—”

And John turns, because he hears the approaching treads of tyres on the pavement at his back, across the green. John sighs, his heartbeat starting to deepen, gain momentum. 

He’d recognise those black cars anywhere. 

“Right,” John says into the phone as he makes his way to the back passenger door. “On my way.”

______________________________

The car doesn’t turn toward The Diogenes. 

That should really have been the first sign that something desperate, something unthinkable—something utterly absurd and brilliant and everything John never wanted and needs with all the blood in him, all the fear in him and the heart; something daring and dangerous and entirely unprecedented was already underway.

______________________________

 

The car lets him off near a door. It’s dark, and he can’t make out his surroundings for shit, and he’d give just about anything for his gun, right now: there’s only one thing left for it, then.

He opens the door.

There’s a hallway, and he walks it. There’s another doorway, closed over, light seeping through. He pushes, and it opens to a space part-warehouse, part-operations centre. People are milling, though not too many. Lights are focused in given areas more than others. John can pick out Mycroft from his suit among uniforms.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greets him stiffly, and John doesn’t realise how odd that title sounds in that cold tone, after all this, until he hears it paired with Mycroft's steely eyes, his stoic face. 

He hadn’t realised how chilling it had always been, in its way, for all the warmth Mycroft sometimes feigned, before. 

“So good of you to agree to come,” Mycroft continues, excusing himself from the underlings he’d been observing as John arrived and ushering John toward a far corner, another doorway. “This consult won’t take long, I assure you.”

John doesn’t know what to say, so he merely nods with a clipped _Of course_ ; thankfully, the click of a latch is behind them quickly, and Mycroft immediately glances to ensure their position is secure before he relaxes, deflates.

“I think he’s in trouble, John.”

And this, perhaps, is the moment John realises how much has changed, how much is different. Because the man in that room just now, the sleek lines and the pinched features and the unquestionable power of his presence: he’s never affected John as he has so many others, but Mycroft Holmes the Government never failed to lend an edge to a conversation, an atmosphere—the future of a given person’s well being, should they fail. 

But _Mycroft_ , his lover’s brother, family of a sort for better or worse, and perhaps a friend even—yes, now, through this, undoubtedly a friend: the Mycroft here, before him now, with the fault-lines of stress at the corners of his mouth and the widened eyes and the slightly desperate shape of his words: he is familiar. He is a man, and not a myth.

And John is struck, suddenly, by just how different his world is, now. The realisation makes him want to shudder, but he swallows hard; he fights it.

He fights it, and wins.

John looks up at Mycroft with a carefully-reined resolve. “What do we plan to do about it, then?”

Mycroft looks less surprised than grateful, for an instant, and then they’re walking, and John’s aware that Mycroft’s back is straightening, that he’s resuming his composure, realigning himself with his image; John squares his shoulders in kind, readying himself for whatever’s coming, what lies ahead.

It turns out that what lies ahead is a brightly lit compartment lined in mirrors and racks of clothing, that looks far too much like a salon. 

And smells too much like a salon.

John has no idea what to make of it, no idea what it means, and so resorts to the best defence he has.

“Because of _course_ Her Majesty's government employs makeup artists.”

Mycroft allows himself a small chuckle, muttering under his breath before the woman puttering about at one of the stations—the woman with too many jars of too much cream and paste and gunk—takes note of them. “Surely you don’t think the royals look that way without some assistance?”

John just blinks, and Mycroft nods to the woman who looks to be finishing her preparations, her concoctions: a tall brunette with sparkly flats beneath her flowing skirt, and a twist of curls atop her head that falls just so. In a different time, John would have given her more than a second glance.

“This is actually my own recruit,” Mycroft corrects. “A favour owed, a debt repaid,” he tilts his head, considering. “Well, one debt of many.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”

Mycroft doesn’t shrug, or give indication in either direction; John nods and tightens his shoulders again, still uncertain as to what on earth he’s doing here, what this is going to do to help _Sherlock_.

Because that’s what’s important, that’s why this entire cock-up exists. To save Sherlock from the devils, from himself. To save John a heartbreak more than what he’s got. To save them all from crumbling for the loss.

“That’s what I thought.”

The woman approaches, her hips swinging naturally as she stops before them, a brush that seems designed for painting held poised between her fingers. Yes, John admits. More than a second glance, indeed.

“Are you ready?” she asks, and her voice is deep, but soft as she watches John expectantly. 

And for this, John is at something of a loss.

“I’m sorry?”

“John,” Mycroft interjects, his tone indulgent, not yet impatient. “Calliope’s very skilled at her craft. I understand she has a few ideas for your first foray into the art of disguise,” he looks at Calliope meaningfully and she nods, a hint of enthusiasm quirking her lips.  

Disguise? Foray? They’re both looking at him as if he’s got a fucking clue what’s what.

“Wait, you’re—” John splutters, breathes in deep. “ _Me_?”

Mycroft’s mouth tenses for a moment before he asks Calliope to excuse the pair of them; she turns and Mycroft leads him back out of the room; not perturbed, exactly, but just as he was before outside the eyes of others—strained.

“I’d assumed you would prefer to have a hand in this,” he tells John, voice low; “particularly if we’re to expect the worst.”

“Well, obviously I’d _prefer_ it,” John counters, “but I don’t understand what you’re getting at, what this is,” and John doesn’t, because for all that he’d once tried, he _isn’t_ a Holmes, and he wants to help Sherlock more than he wants air in his lungs and blood in his veins, he wants Sherlock _home_ but he isn’t the type to run off without a fucking _plan_.

“John.” Mycroft’s tone is a plea to understand, to see whatever he’s missing. “My resources only go so far before they begin to attract unwanted attentions. There are aspects of an operation such as this that involve minimal disclosure of information,” his hand gestures to the control room they’d first left, with all the people in uniform, all the order, all the commands. 

“But I can’t trust just anyone with _him_ ,” Mycroft finishes meaningfully, and right. Well then. 

Perhaps it’s enough that someone else has a plan.

John nods, and Mycroft ushers him back to Calliope and the paintbrushes with powders on them, gives a tight grin to the woman that she takes as leave to begin her ministrations.

“So,” she opens, leading John to a chair. “I’m thinking a little bit of Hollywood, a little bit of Bond.”

John blinks up at her reflection in the brightly-lit mirror in front of him as she drops a cape across his front. “Can that even be _done_?”

She glares at him as if he’s insulted her mum, and he resolutely keeps his mouth shut as she starts in on his hair.  
______________________________

Turns out, with enough powder and brushes and creams and dyes, hair extensions that make him jump when the newly-elongated strands tickle at his nape, and just a tiny bit of prosthetic-wear that makes John itch like mad—and prompts questions as to what his life has come to, exactly, given that he now knows in horrible detail how to properly apply, remove, and store said facial prostheses; well, it turns out that John _can_ be made to look just a little too suave for his own good.

The flight to Nuremberg—that’s where they’ve tracked Sherlock, to their best estimates, from Bosaso to Hilpoltstein with wealth as their clue; the flight  takes less than two hours. John follows the instructions to the letter. He gets “lost” and runs into an airport security officer—a plant, Mycroft’s man—and babbles out the long string of German that feels vaguely familiar from his school days but is still mostly lines and accents affected for the show, the act.

The officer eyes him warily and directs him to ground transportation; John breathes deeply, murmurs _danke_ with a sweep of his pesky not-hair from his face and turns, walks, exits, counts.

Third cab from the back. Not the front.

From the back.

He gets in, and is greeted by a Cockney accent, a sign he can relax, if only just; and he breathes. Breathes.

“Le Méridien Grand,” John tells the driver, his own accent in place, his tongue ready to spit what snips of Hochdeutsch he can manage unscripted as he turns on the secure mobile Mycroft equipped him with, waits for the network to activate. Sees an unread text.

It’s hard, still, to see texts and know that whoever they happen to be from, they won’t be right. They won’t be signed with those two letters that make John’s blood boil and race and still and sing.

_Room 314. Do not check in._

John frowns at the screen as the car glides to a halt and the driver turns, reverses protocol: instead of waiting for John’s fistful of Euros, he hands John a keycard and turns back without a word. John climbs out, and distinctly hears the cabbie greet his next client in flawless German. 

He hefts his bag higher on his shoulder—he’s only slated to be in the city for 36 hours, so it’s small, light, only holding his overnight essentials and a second suit cut identically to the one he’s wearing now, too much like Sherlock’s wardrobe for him to do anything but catch his own reflection with a little sadness in his eyes. He flips his sunglasses atop his head and strides into the hotel with as much nonchalance as he knows, spots the lifts immediately and ignores the middle-aged couple who joins him to just the second floor.

He sighs a bit when his keycard opens the door to 314 without incident. Not that he’s expecting anything different, but this is all a bit new for him.

He’s barely toed off his shoes before the phone pings at him.

_Intervention unnecessary. Situation resolved._

John exhales long, slow; tries not to shout or curse or throw anything because the adrenaline building in his system as he’d readied himself mentally, physically for this task is nothing, means _nothing_ if whatever trouble Sherlock had found himself in has been rectified.

There’s a pang in his chest, though, that he can’t ignore wholly—to save Sherlock would mean, assumedly, to _see_ Sherlock, after all, and his heart had been longing for it like a mad thing from the start.

He’s not yet set the phone down before it vibrates, pings again. 

_Observation advised._

Right. John falls on top of the stiff, pristine bed before he can stop himself, rumpling the duvet as he allows himself to sprawl, to stare at the ceiling; lets his pulse leap a bit at the restoration of hope without so much dread in it, however foolish it might prove, however useless it all might be.

He imagines Sherlock’s fingers in his hair and allows himself a moment to close his eyes, allows himself the indulgence of an instant where the world’s at rights again; he gives in to delusion for just a few minutes before the world commands him back.

______________________________

John spends all of that evening playing roulette between the lines—they think Sherlock’s been near Ziegelstein, likely involved in a bit of corporate espionage at Lucent Technologies out that way; Mycroft suspects that whatever leads Sherlock’s been following for the past weeks are crucial to tracking Moriarty’s cells in North America. John couldn’t have cared less as to the reasons, once they determined that Sherlock hadn’t made a move—or else, not one Mycroft could track, save the flowers—in nearly a month.

A _month_. 

The preparation for the journey, for the mission Mycroft was sending him on, the mission John would have undertaken with or without official sanction, the protocol, the planning, the disguise: it had all been ample distraction from the fact that Sherlock was M.I.A., but the fact of it rushes back heavy and hard now as he mills, as he leaves trains just to board new ones in the opposite direction, retracing his steps, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of something familiar, now knowing what to look for exactly, just praying that when he finds it, he’ll know.

He ponders what colour Sherlock’s hair will be, his eyes. He wonders as to whether he’s gained weight, lost it, whether he wears a fake nose, even, or something else ridiculous. He wonders as to the scars in Sherlock’s skin, the bruises below. Dwells on broken flesh and broken bones, wonders if Sherlock’s been stabbed or shot or worse, thinks on what it means that he’s disappeared, more than before; the deliveries could have been automated once a destination was selected, after all, and that would mean more than broken things, that could mean open wounds and infection and blood on a floor and gone, and dry, and cold, and—

Needless to say, the relative quiet of the U-Bahn, back and forth without a hint of Sherlock’s presence, doesn’t do the rapid-stream of John’s anxious thoughts any favours as they trip, and twist, and weave out a noose too soon.

And when it comes to it, a wasted night of watching and seeking and never finding: when it’s done, it turns out that maybe John had taken to carrying the sleeping pills his therapist had given him for a reason those weeks ago—inexplicable, just this side of puzzling. He knows he shouldn’t take them, knows he’s in enemy territory and he’s ill-prepared, at large, and he’s vulnerable, and what if Sherlock needs him? He needs to be awake and alert, he can’t allow for this weakness and yet—

And yet, if John lets himself waste the night atop the blankets with his whole body hurting for no physical reason, with his mind whirring and his chest aching and his breath coming fast, he’s afraid the gun Mycroft issued him—a Sig Sauer, much like his own—will look too friendly.

He pops two of the pills, and settles down for the night.

______________________________

The next morning, he tries to fool himself into believing there’s some method to this that will actually yield results, that he’s not merely aiming at a moving target in a city full of people, trying to unearth the only treasure among bits of straw in a haystack of millions.

It takes him ten hours with nothing save false glimmers, but then it happens: that’s when the U2 rides seamlessly even as everything hitches, everything stops.

That’s when John’s world narrows to a single breath, a single set of lungs not his own.

That’s when John _sees_ him.

His mind is screaming, pleading with him not to stare and he just manages to stop himself, to orient his gaze so that Sherlock—oh god, _Sherlock_ —is pitched just so in his peripheral vision, inconspicuous. He’s got glasses, and chestnut coloured hair, short and straight. Thinner, but only just, mostly in the face from what his clothes betray—simple trousers and a flannel under a short jacket, so unlike the Sherlock John knows, and yet he looks comfortable. Bored, longing maybe—but that may be wishful thinking—but fine. He’s wearing contacts, John assumes, because of the way his eyes don’t pop behind those fake lenses, don’t draw attention as Sherlock stares out the window at the dark insides of tunnels as they trail by too fast.

John’s having trouble swallowing, for the fury of his pulse.

It’s enough, John tells himself; it’s enough to see him and to watch his chest rise and fall. It’s enough for him to blink and sigh and stare. It’s enough to watch Sherlock and to know that he’s _whole_. It’s enough to stare in fits and spurts for a stop, then another, slowly making their way back toward the city centre—it’s enough that John can crack his neck to cover the trailing of his eyes over Sherlock’s shoulders, the line of Sherlock’s neck. 

But it isn’t.

It isn’t enough, and so when Sherlock’s hand—those gorgeous fingers serpentine as they clasp the metal bar and haul that impossible man to his feet; when Sherlock moves to the door and makes to exit as they stop at Rathenauplatz, John exhales, wills his heart not to bust for the way it’s pounding, and he praises the steadiness of his steps, the way his breath stays slow for all that it chokes him when he sidles up, when he stages it careful, immediate, improvises magnificently.

It isn’t enough, so John brushes Sherlock as they deplane, his right ring-finger and pinkie grazing Sherlock’s wrist, an honest mistake, just proximity and a bustling city station before it’s over, before it’s done and John moves seamlessly, follows the crowd and doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t put a hand to his chest to hold in the bounding under his ribs; doesn’t lift his fingertips—ring-finger and pinkie—to the rough curve of his lips.

He doesn’t, but fuck—he _wants_ to.

______________________________

John takes the long way back to the Hauptbahnhof, jumping on the U3 to Rothenburger Straße and letting the subtle clacking of the car soothe him, now, settle him as his body, as his mind and his sense of self simmer just beneath the surface for the contact, for the _touch_. John breathes deep against all the things he’d been chaining, all the things he’d kept close and caged because he couldn’t afford the weight of them, couldn’t bear the hurt of them. John breathes against all the things he’s pushed low and tamped down tight as they rise, now, as they expand and take him over, and he has to bite his tongue to stop the sting behind his eyes.

Sherlock. Christ, _Sherlock_.

It’s dark by the time John settles into his hotel room, ponders packing his things but can’t, not just now. He manages to take one of his contacts out but has to wait on the second for the way his hands are shaking; sits on the bed and sighs, gasps, sighs for a minute, another, trying to will himself into order.

It’s a knock on the door past midnight that shakes him back to himself.

His body’s ready for it before his mind slips into place: pulse elevated, muscles primed, eyes sharp, adjusted to the dim. He grabs for his gun where he placed it on the side table near his pillow and gives protocol to checking the peephole in the door: nothing.

John exhales, and tightens his grip on the Sig: no trembling, not now.

He stands to the side as he yanks the door open, darts his hand out around the edge and grabs near the hinges, makes contact with something solid and grips, pulls, flings his uninvited visitor into the room and onto the floor, keeps the firearm perfectly aimed so as to manage a painful hit to the shoulder or a lethal one to the neck within less than a second, either way.

As it happens, though, when the door swings closed behind him, John’s hand’s gone slack as he stares at the man on the ground in front of him; he’s got instinct to thank, in the end, for the fact that he manages to thumb on the safety before the gun clatters to the floor.

Glasses, short brown hair, and contacts, yes, hazel, but closer now, John can see what they hide: the sharpness, the curiosity, the brilliance.

The _love_.

John can’t fucking _breathe_.

“ _Sherlock_.”


	10. Nothing More in the Whole of Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you truly believe, even for a moment,” Sherlock whispers into John’s hair, nuzzles his scalp as he twines their fingers and brings them together to his lips; “that I could ever forget the touch of your hand in mine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) for winning bets and calling me on my absurdities when things I fear are useless are indeed _yes, quite shit_.

John shudders, and his heart follows suit in the moments that stretch where they look, simply stare and drink in all of the vivid signs of one another’s being underneath the disguising, the facades. John isn’t sure if it’s hours or breaths that stretch before Sherlock—Sherlock, Christ, it’s _Sherlock_ —stands before him, limbs shaking from the elbows out as he reaches, as he frames John’s face and breathes heavily, frantically, his chest brushing John’s with every inhale, like the air’s meant to leave the room at any second and Sherlock just wants, just _wants_.

It takes a moment—a lifetime—for John to that realize the brush of Sherlock’s chest against him with each breath is caused by the way his own lungs are needing, greedy: the way his own flesh rises to meet Sherlock every time he draws in the scent of him, the fact of him.

Sherlock’s touch, the slow drag of his fingertips as they splay across John’s temples, lingering; as John’s breath stutters when Sherlock meets the edges of the latex sharpening his cheekbones, subtly changing the curves where they meet the slope of his nose. Sherlock blinks, his expression blank as his fingernails search out the well-concealed edge of the prosthesis, easing it away from the skin he knows. John winces as the glue tugs away from his flesh but it’s mended, remedied when Sherlock leans in to the rubbed-red skin and breathes there, uneven; nuzzles back and forth until John fears his pulse might tear forth from the arteries themselves for the way his heart doesn’t just hum but stretches, bounds, demands something it has mourned in the darkness, feared losing for too long.

The fingertips of Sherlock’s left hand run the line of John’s philtrum and lilt across his lips, outlining their shape as his right thumb draws the hollow beneath the one eye that’s still not John’s. John reaches, forces his hand to be steady as he pinches the second contact from his iris and he’s rewarded for the effort when Sherlock exhales, sighs low—when Sherlock, who has been silent thus far and looks on the edge of shattering through something precious and irredeemable: Sherlock whimpers and meets John’s eyes and John feels steady, suddenly, while he comes undone at the seams.

John’s hand is caught around Sherlock’s wrist in an instant, and he raises the palm that’s making its way down John’s neck back to where it touched his mouth, draws it back to his lips and presses, holds as he feels Sherlock’s blood racing under the skin where he touches. Sherlock surrenders his left hand to John’s kiss as he lets the right overtake his exploration, something necessary and hesitant in him crumbling, yes, but still determined. John swears he feels the cells of him collapsing as his knees beg to tremble, as Sherlock rests a reverent, alms-open hand to the base of John’s throat, measuring every beat and breath and broken moan that rumbles there and if Sherlock’s eyes gleam brighter, wet with something newly warm, then John wants only to lean in and grasp and never part.

Never.

And that’s when Sherlock undoes the first, the second buttons on John’s shirt; that’s when Sherlock’s hand slips against John’s skin and presses for an instant against John’s heart where it beats, where it leaps for him in wonder and gratitude and oh, for all the things that keep it thrumming. Sherlock’s eyes slide closed for a moment and he exhales slowly, the bow of his mouth parted and his expression entranced before John sneaks his tongue against Sherlock’s palm at his lips, before Sherlock’s eyes open once more and his spare hand moves farther, probes quickly and efficient, searching, tension evident, still, in the whole of him as he reaches his goal, his touchstone, and John gasps before he can’t breath at all when he feels that touch connect with the torn flesh, the puckered starburst at his shoulder.

John chokes out something deeper than a sob when Sherlock deflates, falls into John just as John collapses into him; when Sherlock keens, moans, finally speaks like the world only needs the one word to keep spinning: “ _John_.”

John barely has time to recoup all the losses and gains, all the rearranging of his very being back to having this piece of him, having this blood-warm keeper of his very heart and soul before him once more: he barely has time to process the reality of the moment before Sherlock’s backed him against the wall, before Sherlock’s mouth descends upon his own, before Sherlock’s knee is parting John’s thighs and Sherlock’s fingers are divesting John of his clothes, not merely frantic but desperate. John nips his way up and down Sherlock’s neck, buries his hands in Sherlock’s close-cropped hair and doesn’t think to wish for those tuggable curls, not when Sherlock still moans, filthy and full when John caresses his scalp, same as ever.

John can’t think to wish for anything more than this. Nothing more in the whole of being.

Sherlock makes to move lower, to sink and draw a wet line down John’s torso as he unloops John’s belt, but John won’t have it. He’s waited too long, his chest has ached for too many hours to have Sherlock give everything and get nothing, not when John’s body only sings, his heart only fills when they’re pressed together against the cosmos overhead: when they’re both breathless and clutching to one another until the world rights itself and they can see again in colour.

John walks them to the bed with his mouth on Sherlock’s, parting only to lift Sherlock’s shirt off, to ease Sherlock’s trousers down as they fall against the mattress, legs bent against the edge.

John means to make this perfect; John means to stroke and stretch and sink until Sherlock is keening and John’s ripped to shreds and his chest aches for new reasons, gorgeous reasons. John means to settle in his lover and remind the whole of him, of them both what it means to be this way, what it means to have what they have and fight for it to the ends of the earth.

John forgets that perfection finds its own expression, despite all intentions.

Sherlock’s legs spread and John falls forward onto him, props himself up with hands splayed to either side of Sherlock’s face, and where John’s stripped to his own skin, Sherlock’s still masquerading as someone else, just so: some soft voice in John’s mind whispers in protest, tells him he should be hesitant, put off, but he can’t be, because Sherlock’s body is so familiar, Sherlock’s voice could only ever be his own, and when John licks down Sherlock’s chest and buries his face in the curls between his thighs and _breathes_ , John knows he could never mistake Sherlock for another.

Sherlock trembles when John drags the blunts of his teeth down Sherlock’s shaft, more restraint in his motions that he can comprehend possessing here, now, after _so long_. He can’t understand it, but he means to follow through; his mouth is opened, the ring of his lips is hollowed soft and ready when Sherlock grabs onto him, heaves him up until they’re face to face, chest to chest, their lengths drawn up to strain into one another and John gasps as Sherlock cups his cheeks, cants his hips. Sherlock is all heat and hard lines and _need_ , and John melts, indistinguishable, made of all the same pieces, realigning so as to fall into place.

Neither lasts long, hips rocking, all delicious friction as quick as they can in case it is a dream, in case it’s an illusion or a trick or cruelty in the universe teasing them until they break. John digs fingernails into Sherlock’s shoulder blades, Sherlock sucks, bites hards into John’s neck as he stifles moans with every slide and hitch as they both build, as they both peak and come mere moments apart and the cry of it gets caught and kept between their mouths as they press lips more than kiss with any finesse or intent; as they share breath in the shaking and release more than anything physical: as they shed the poison of fear and abandonment, tear down the walls built to keep their bodies safe as their hearts festered, open wounds.

They shiver for hours, it seems; they hold close long after it stops.  
____________________________________

If he squints, John thinks he can see light, the first sunbeams through the curtains. He turns in Sherlock’s arms, pressing into his front and mouthing at the underside of his chin before he tucks underneath it, lets Sherlock hold him to his chest as he kisses John’s brow.

“How did you know?” John asks, breathes into Sherlock’s skin, because he’s curious. He was so careful, so sure of his disguise and his bearing, the way he moved and the subtlety, the innocence of his encounter with Sherlock on the train. He feels cowed, shamed by the fact that he risked everything, could have destroyed them both.

Sherlock seems to read the tension, though; grabs for John’s hand and trails light fingertips from the tips of John’s own fingers down to the lines in his palm.

“Did you truly believe, even for a _moment_ ,” Sherlock whispers into John’s hair, nuzzles his scalp as he twines their fingers and brings them together to his lips; “that I could ever forget the touch of your hand in mine?”

John’s heart stumbles when he hears those words, when Sherlock’s tone grows strained before he presses lips to John’s hand in his. John closes his eyes and says nothing; leans into Sherlock’s warm chest, the thin strength of it—stronger than before, more muscle, still pale as all hell—and squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock sighs, and John feels in against his head as he hears it rush beneath his ear.

“I’ve,” Sherlock murmurs, swallows hard, regroups. “To say that I’ve missed you, John...”

John can feel the long stretch of Sherlock’s lungs, the rising of his pulse; John squeezes their joined hands again and traces his free palm across the planes of Sherlock’s chest, rests it reassuringly at the center: grounded, present.

“I know,” John tells him. “God, Sherlock, I _know_.”

“I knew you were essential,” and John will never tire of hearing those words from Sherlock Holmes’ mouth, not ever. “I’ve told you as much, and I’ve meant it wholeheartedly.”

The breath beneath him hitches, and the heart works harder, if only just.

“But never in my wildest dreams could I have envisioned what the lack of you would feel like,” Sherlock confesses, his voice just shy of breaking. “What the loss of you would _do_.”

John takes his open palm and strokes down Sherlock’s abdomen, up again, and down. “Not a moment has passed since you left where I don’t feel hollow,” John tells him, lets the cracks in him open to show the raw bits, the parts bleeding on the inside every day he spends alone. “Where I don’t feel wrong in the very core of me, where I haven’t ached for you in the marrow of my bones.”

Sherlock’s heart is still pounding, and his breath is deliberately paced to try and calm it; John keeps teasing up and down his torso, but Sherlock catches him, stalls the caress just above that pulsing muscle, holds John’s hand there and exhales long, slow.

“The hammering is constant, sometimes, but not for fear of what’s to come,” Sherlock whispers, a secret, a weakness, and John doesn’t know if he’ll ever learn how to be properly grateful for that, for whatever he is, for whatever anomaly he possesses and embodies that allows Sherlock to open to him, that allows this mystery to shine for John’s eyes alone.

“For fear of never seeing you again, perhaps,” Sherlock continues, and John keeps his eyes closed; hears the words and feels for them, but none of it sinks quite so deep as the radiating warmth, the rising-falling breaths, the fear-fueled bounding blood: none of it quite overcomes the certainly of life that surrounds John, that holds him and eases so much lethal terror from _his_ body in the process.

“Nonsensical though it may be,” Sherlock muses, and his heart starts to settle, John notes idly as he brings the hands not pressed against Sherlock’s chest to gather tight against John’s own; “I am almost convinced it’s an ultimatum, a threat of self-immolation,” and now, John pries his hand from Sherlock’s chest and raises Sherlock’s palm to his waiting lips as Sherlock whispers, almost afraid: “Finish this and return,” he inhales sharp; “else face the end without--”

“I love you,” John cuts him off, because all the words he knows fall short, save those.

“I’ve missed saying that so much,” he looks up, tilts his head as Sherlock cranes his neck and looks down at him, eyes wide and innocent, lips parted, face flushed, marveling at no miracle, just the fact of John’s bald-faced _feeling_ , and John smiles, wider than his face remembers how; it stings, the best kind of ache.

“I’ve missed seeing that exact look on your gorgeous face,” John breathes, traces the shape of Sherlock’s lips, his nose, his cheeks.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John says it, because he can. “I love you more than life itself.”

John says it, because he does.

There’s a beat of silence before Sherlock tightens his hold on John, tugs him closer, a little desperate as he pulls him up and kisses him deeply, whispers into his lips: “You are the heart, John Watson.” He pulls back and studies John’s face, his eyes, takes all of him in and Sherlock transforms in seeing it, seeing _John_. “From the very moment I met you, you have always been the heart,” Sherlock leans in again to speak into John’s mouth, to tell his cells through the contact, his bones through the blood: “You have always held the heart.”

John knows, in that moment, that he will never accomplish anything, never be or do or mean anything more important than this, than here, than whatever he has in Sherlock, with Sherlock, that takes hold and transcends the language John knows.

He says nothing, and he thinks Sherlock understands, thinks he knows; John’s heart thumps hard for a minute, and he feels a stray beat from Sherlock’s every few moments, echoing the same.

He knows.

“This is new,” John finally breaks the quiet, running a finger against a long, jagged scar on Sherlock’s biceps, winding down toward the elbow.

“The web is collapsing, John,” Sherlock replies; “too slowly, but quite surely,” and John agrees with his reticence, much as he doesn’t wish to: this time is too precious to recount the skirmishes, the close calls, the kills.

Even so, he can’t resist as he runs imaginary stitches up the shining line of flesh with the curve of his fingernail, bottom to top: “Can’t I help?”

Sherlock kisses his temple, holds there longer than he needs to. “You are here,” Sherlocks tells him, states more than just the obvious. “That is the greatest help I could ever hope to find.”

John shakes his head, lifts up to look Sherlock in the eye, to protest, but Sherlock grasps his chin and holds his gaze, pleads for silence and mercy and understanding of his own, and John hates this, he _hates_ this.

“We chose this road,” Sherlock reminds him, begs; “and I will not let the pain of it be for nothing.”

John swallows the rise of bile in his throat, because _they_ didn’t choose anything, really. John pushed his advantage and steered the course and what if he was wrong, what if this won’t work, what if it’s too hard or too long or too much and neither of them can manage, _no one_ could ever manage _this_ , how could he _ask_ this of the man he _loves_ \--

“You must remain safe, else the weight of it when I breathe, every time I _breathe_ , John,” Sherlock’s eyes sweep swift from John’s eyes to his lips and back, desperate for him to _understand_ ; “the way it chokes me will have been in vain.”

The bile in John’s throat gets caught when it all tightens, when his breath grows shallow and he has to fight the sting behind his eyes as he watches Sherlock, refuses to break gaze.

“Sherlock,” he forces out, shaking; “I’m _sorry_ —”

“Don’t,” Sherlock commands him, sharp; Sherlock begs him, teetering; Sherlock soothes him, runs thumbs below John’s eyes before the tears fall: fortifying, gentle. “Don’t.”

They settle, John curled around Sherlock’s side and splayed across his chest at angles; Sherlock bent in turn around John, formed to his shape. Minutes pass, the world outside brightens, and John glances at the alarm clock beside them, set for seven, just as Sherlock flips off the alarm.

It’s 6:48.

“You can’t leave. Not yet,” Sherlock declares simply. “I need you, just a bit longer,” and to hear it in that voice, decisive and divested, but the _words_ betray _everything_ even before Sherlock’s tone harshens, roughens, cracks: “Just a little more.”

“Sherlock,” John leans into him, steeped in regret; “we can’t risk it—”

“Your tickets are both refundable and transferrable. That’s not an accident,” and fuck knows how he could possibly have figured that out. “If I’m being tracked, they’ll have followed me across the Swiss border by now,” he continues; “I don’t merely disguise myself, John, I assume the appearance of another.” John can hear the curling of Sherlock’s lips as he elaborates: “Mycroft’s men, for the most part,” he admits, the soft sneer in his voice comforting, familiar, a balm on John’s mind.

“His security protocols are child’s play, really,” and John’s missed this too; fuck, how John has _missed_ this. “And of course, I am supremely skilled at covering my tracks.”

Sherlock is quiet for a spell, and now it’s not smirking, or grinning, but full-on laughter in his words. “As well as impersonating my brother in anything but the flesh, for that matter.”

John takes a moment to add the expressions and deduce accordingly.

“You’ve been ordering around you brother’s foreign operatives _as_ your brother?”

John relishes the trapped flutter of a giggle—a crime-scene, triple-homicide, Anderson’s-gobsmacked sort of giggle—in Sherlock’s chest.

“Clever, isn’t it? Their assignments are classified above top secret. They never communicate in person before debriefing. Simple, really,” John can hear wistfulness seeping into his lover’s tone. “Wish I’d thought of it before now.”

“You’re mad,” John takes the giggle in Sherlock’s chest and releases it, manic and unrestrained from his own mouth as he grins, as he watches his partner’s eyes dance with mirth before the laughter spreads, contagious, and Sherlock bursts into giggles, shaking against John’s body as John lifts up and kisses him between each fit of joy.

“You mad, brilliant bastard,” John chuckles, breathless, and reads the pleasure, the softness in Sherlock’s expression as they calm. “God, I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks down, and John curses the way he sobers; John revels in the way Sherlock holds to him, claims his mouth and kisses him, tongues on his lips and his teeth, searching every corner and crease, needing, and John realizes there’s no escape in this—no escape from what haunts them, what kills them in the moments outside this room; there is no escape in this, when this is all there is.

“I’ve made to call you, to text you, so very many times,” Sherlock tells him, can’t meet his eyes, so unlike Sherlock, so very like the way John’s chest strains and his mind whirls, and oh, what have they done, what has _John done_ —

“I’ve longed just for your voice in my ear, an instant, to take the sound of your words and your breath and carve your touch from it, your warmth.”

Sherlock looks at him, his gaze naked and raw, and John brings his hand to Sherlock’s cheek; knows before he touches that Sherlock needs it, will lean into it not just for wanting, but because he cannot hold anymore on his own.

“How much longer?” John asks him.

“I can’t say,” Sherlock shakes his head, despairing as he looks away, lets his eyes drift closed and just holds against John’s palm. “I wish I could, but every time I think I’ve watched the central threads unravel, they lead to a tighter weave, a thicker band to claw into breaking.”

John swallows hard. He hadn’t wished to hear that.

“I think, though, perhaps,” Sherlock begins, slow, thinking as he speaks, waiting on precision as he lifts his eyes back to John’s.

“You were unrecognizable in every way on that metro car,” Sherlock tells him, solemn, intent. “When you brushed against me, though, it wasn’t adrenaline that sent my heart racing, as it should have been, as every other instance of contact has elicited since this began. There wasn’t a tightening in my muscles, a rage in my limbs,” and the guilt runs hot through John to know that, to hear that, because Sherlock had opened so wide, had given so much and changed with John, because he trusted that John would be worth it, and now: now he is left to not merely the whims of the wide world, but its _hate_.

John’s left Sherlock to face that alone.

“It was more a flood of dopamine, straight to the nucleus accumbens. It was oxytocin and a lightness I’d forgotten in my chest and I cannot explain it, I could not understand it because as I watched you disappear you were no one I could know, and yet my feet followed you before I knew my own steps,” and John crumbles as he keeps his hand steady against Sherlock’s cheek, but Sherlock knows him, Sherlock is stronger than he realises, good and great and unfathomable, and he rests his hand on John’s and holds them together, keeps them from falling as he confesses his heart with truth in those eyes, now bright and colourless in the dim light, the contacts lost in the night.

And John doesn’t deserve this, John doesn’t deserve him, not after this, not after the scars on Sherlock’s skin and his soul and the way Sherlock grasps and holds and the way he breathes like a dying man: John doesn’t deserve the devotion of Sherlock Holmes.

He gets it anyway.

“You were no one to my eyes,” Sherlock tells him with fervor, voice pitched low; “ _my_ eyes, John,” and John starts to see it, starts to comprehend but doesn’t dare to hope just yet. “You were anonymous even as my body knew your touch without a thought.”

“We could see one another, this way,” Sherlock finishes, off-balance, suddenly unsure, and it takes John a moment to calm the leaping in his chest, the way the room brightens as the sun stays still.

“Every so often,” Sherlock trails off, then; “make it bearable, perhaps.”

John leans in and kisses Sherlock with everything he has, breathes him in and whispers all the things words can’t contain against his mouth in gasps and moans. And Sherlock, that brilliant man, he whispers back and moves and keens and they’re together, they’re together and the sun will rise and this will end except it won’t, it can’t; they’re together and they’re breathing and there’s love and that’s all.

That’s all.

____________________________________

John catches an early evening flight from Flughafen Nürnberg; the sky’s black the whole way home. When he drifts off, he feels colder than he’s felt in ages.

But when his fingers brush the mark of Sherlock’s teeth against his throat—when they reach and touch and pray against the possibility of dreams every time he jolts to waking; when John touches the dips in the skin he can do nothing but smile, and there’s only warmth in the world, then, only the fullness in his chest and a hand splayed at his hips and the dusky murmur of the promise of tomorrow against the back of his ear as he’s held close, tight, _loved_ —

The cold, John finds, is tolerable, all things considered.


	11. The Weight and The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would you?” Sherlock considers him, sceptical and hopeful, childlike and jaded in the same moment, the same space. “I know it’s not what you hoped for, what you’d envisioned,” Sherlock’s eyes dart, frantic for a moment before he breathes out, closes them and clenches his fists in the pseudo-blanket that is John’s jacket tucked at his waist. “I know I’m not,” Sherlock stumbles, hesitant, bleeding into desperate: “But John, you are—” 
> 
> “Shh,” John chides, smoothes hands down Sherlock's chest and up again, to frame his face. “Quiet now, you need rest, you’ll ride this out and everything will be better in the morning,”
> 
> “Such a small word,” Sherlock murmurs, fading now, and the word he means is vague, unclear, and yet John feels its weight, its promise. “It cannot possibly hold something so vast, why do they want it to hold more than it’s made for, they’ll break it, they’ll stretch it out into something wretched and it’ll never be whole again, it’ll never fit the pieces,” Sherlock’s voice shatters on the word, and John’s heart starts to shatter with it. “They can’t _break_ it...”

It’s three months, and John doesn’t quite know what happened in the interim, between leaving Germany and stepping through security at Gatwick towards Changi. The promise of _more_ had propelled him; the idea of seeing Sherlock again in the flesh had led him to motion, to waking and working and maintaining the facade, but his mind was elsewhere, his heart soaring and sinking all at once, torn in two until this, until now.

Until his mind met again with that _mind_ ; until his heart settled back where it belonged.

The air is heavy with the coming rain, tart on the tip of the tongue, and John’s lungs burn with it as he runs, as he gasps and nearly trips over a crag in the pavement as they chase their quarry, as Sherlock’s trainers slap the pavement and John’s own bespoke Berlutis scuff on the turns—he got to keep his hair colour, this time around, but given the sheer amount of product bleeding into his eyes as he sweats, as he pushes harder and _sprints_ , he’s convinced he’s as unrecognisable now as he was when he boarded his flight, all slicked back and frosted at the tips, his eyes a golden brown and his face fake-baked to tan. A growl escapes Sherlock’s throat as he banks, veers right, and John suddenly understands why a word like resurrection exists, suddenly knows what it’s like to rise from the dead.

John sucks in air around his humming pulse, and his pace picks up as he watches the way Sherlock’s jeans hug his arse as he moves, and it is just this side of glorious. The air is light, buoyant, suddenly—but it’s the way they laugh, chests heaving as they gain on their target, that makes it so sweet.

Sherlock is the one who tackles the man to the ground, and John doesn’t take the time to dwell on the way he struggles where he never had before, the way his arms are thin to the point of sickness, the muscles gone, given way to just the bones. John merely grins, catches his breath with just a bit of struggle, out of practice and oh, but it’s beautiful to be back in the game, to have his heart racing, catching in between the giddiness, the giggling that’s less crime scenes, now, and more just Sherlock, more just the overflowing of feeling that pours forth because John loves, and is loved, and that’s more than he expected, before; more than he wakes in fear to lose each day in the now.

John doesn’t see, really, and that can be forgiven: hairspray and pomade and gels of all sorts trailing off from the follicles and onto his lashes. 

John doesn’t observe, though, and that’s what makes it tragic, what makes the laughter stall and sour on the back of his tongue as Sherlock stands from where he’s secured the drug lord overseeing Moriarty’s web, as Sherlock blinks, and his eyes flutter.

John doesn’t see, or observe, and that’s why it’s such a shock, such a blow to the centre of his chest when Sherlock collapses, the strings cut from nowhere, and John’s breath catches, his heart lurches as he moves to soften the blow, to cushion the fall, and again, he’s too late.

He falls short.

_______________________________________

Manoeuvring back to the safe house with Sherlock’s limp form in tow isn’t actually the hard part.

It’s what he finds inside the door when they arrive that’s most difficult.

John would try to step around the refuse littering the floor, except that it’s a coating, it’s unbroken, layer upon layer of blood-soaked linens and empty packets of cigarettes, all different brands, stepped on, crushed, imprinted with the soles of shoes. There are rotting bits of food everywhere, _everywhere_ , and John can’t help but notice that almost none of it’s been touched, not a bite from the crusts or the moulding fruits. There are empty pill bottles, too many, fuck, they’re empty, all of them, and even if three men, maybe four, if they’d all been self-medicating  to the point of near-overdose on a daily basis, they couldn’t have possibly needed that many painkillers.

 _Jesus_.

John can’t help the sinking in his chest, his stomach as he settles Sherlock onto a soiled pallet of burlap, paper bags, and small travel pillows; John shrugs off his unthinkably-expensive suit jacket and drapes it over the pile, prays it adds some cushion, shields some grime. Sherlock moans, and John manoeuvres him down as slowly, as gingerly as he possible can, and it’s then that John sees the shadows, the dark bruises beneath his eyes, the hollow look of Sherlock’s cheek bones, the exaggerated cords of his neck, and John’s eyes burn, his chest tightens as Sherlock whimpers when John pulls back, when John leans in and Sherlock turns toward him, begs with the slightest motion for more contact, more of John’s palm when it cups his burning cheek, more of his lips when John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s forehead, fights the twin urges to recoil at how hot the skin is, to keep him and kiss him and make him well until it drives them both to madness. 

John fights with himself as he searches for something, anything that isn’t crawling with bacteria of one sort or another to soak in cold water—he doesn’t see any needles, powders, no suspicious paraphernalia, and John rips his own shirt, the pristine white passing under rusty water from the tap before John lays it carefully across Sherlock’s brow.

It takes less than a minute to find the most significant culprit of the current situation: a knife wound, dangerously deep at Sherlock’s flank, poorly wrapped, never stitched, angry crimson even against the fevered flush overtaking his pallor, festering with infection. John inspects the damage: the infection’s not surprising, given how much debris is lodged in the flesh. 

“Oh Sherlock,” John breathes out, and it hurts, it hurts because it always hurts when Sherlock’s hurting, but it _kills_ him because everything hits John inside this breath, within this precise instant: it becomes despicably, unconscionably clear that Sherlock is suffering, deeply, for John’s brilliant scheme; that Sherlock is raw and scrambling and he’s succeeding, he’s making this work against all odds and he’s made progress, he’s rid the world of vile souls all for the promise of returning to what they have, reclaiming what they are as a unit, as a whole, and John’s suffered for it, yes, he hasn’t slept a full night since Barts and yet—

Sherlock doesn’t look as if he’s slept at all. Sherlock doesn’t look as if he’s eaten more than is required for the simplest energy conversion to sustain life in its simplest forms. Sherlock barely looks like himself, the ginger hair and the blue eyes aside—even the laughter, now, as John thinks back on it, as John removes the thrill of the chase and the brilliant rush of being back with Sherlock, of being alive and in love; even the laughter was hollow, strained as Sherlock panted harder than he should have, as Sherlock pushed himself to the finish.

John swallows bile as he brushes Sherlock’s hair from his face; he doesn't have any antibiotics, but he does find one bottle of naproxen that’s got three pills left—when he wakes, John tells himself, checking Sherlock’s vitals for the twentieth time to be sure, but yes. It can wait until Sherlock wakes.

John settles himself next to Sherlock, runs his fingers across his cheeks, the dip of his upper lip, traces his mouth and takes his pulse at the neck just to check, to be sure. He lets out a long sigh as his hand moves downward over Sherlock’s bare chest, letting his fingers dip in the horribly-evident ridges of Sherlock’s ribs, and he chokes something like a sob down like lead as he watches Sherlock’s face, strained, but his eyes closed, and John starts to work the thread from the seam of his shirt in preparation for the makeshift stitches he’ll need after he cleans the wound in Sherlock’s side. John lets his own eyes slide closed as he remembers his fingers on Sherlock’s chest, his stomach, Sherlock’s eyes closed and his lungs stretching deep, recalls marvelling at the motion on a different morning, so like the mornings before it and yet something had shifted, something had intensified. Something was different, and John's chest felt smaller for it, because what lived inside had blossomed sometime before dawn; John allows himself to revel in the ever-lingering warmth that stays in the pit of his stomach from the sense-memory of those moments as he’d watched sleep slipping away from Sherlock’s features, as those eyes had opened, never looking quite so warm; as Sherlock’s hand had closed upon John’s against his side and there had been a breath, and then two.

And then three.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John had whispered, he remembers the feel of the words, remembers how he’d hoped that the softness, the subtle catch of them could be countered by the conviction in his voice, the way his gaze remained steady as his pulse beat strong and sure against Sherlock’s torso from where John’s chin rested against his sternum; he remembers hoping, god, how he’d hoped as he looked up and met those eyes staring back. 

He remembers hoping with all that he was and every would be that the calm pump of Sherlock’s pulse in kind as he processed, as he remained still and silent save for the breathing and the beating was a good sign, meant that John would survive this night without some lethal bruising in his chest.

John remembers, will always remember the way moments seemed unending  before Sherlock inhaled deeply, before his voice rumbled out like thunder on a cliff face, majestic for all of the roughness, the crags. 

“There were reasons, you know,” Sherlock exhaled, and John, if he sits there; if he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can recall the feel of the breath on his forehead, in his hair, the slight staleness of it on his tongue. “Before you. I survived before you, and it was tolerable enough.”

John recalls, always seeks to replicate the way that Sherlock’s chest felt welcoming, a refuge as he turned away from that stare, made due with pressing his lips into Sherlock’s skin.

“But John,” and John can almost feel the way his body lurched, keened as Sherlock’s hand settled at the back of John’s neck out of nowhere. 

“John,” and oh, he can still feel the spark, the electricity in that touch as Sherlock’s palm coaxed him upward, teased his eyes and his body to rise and to meet; “you make me want more than that.” 

John wants, in this moment as Sherlock lies before him, his breathing just a bit shallow, his hairline beaded with sweat, his expression strained as he struggles for an instant, then falls still: John wants nothing more than to return to the memory consuming him, the feeling of being tucked beneath Sherlock’s neck, safely nestled where he could hear the rumble in Sherlock’s throat that foretold words, the most beautiful words that changed everything and nothing, just a low purr in the dark.

“You give me more, and you drive me toward better, and with you, for you, I want what lies beyond survival,” and when Sherlock swallowed, the motion of it through the muscles and the skin was nearly exquisite, close to sublime. “John, with you I want to _live_ , for all that that implies,” Sherlock had confessed it softly, like a sin, and John remembers looking upwards, meeting eyes that were naked for the first time, perhaps, though not the last.

“I love you,” Sherlock had let the words fall, delicate, aching with such feeling from the outside that John lamented then, laments now and yet rejoices in what they must have bled with from within, in kind. “Oh, how I love you.”

They’d both fallen asleep, despite the glare of the sun through the window; John comes back to himself, his fingers still tripping over the lines of Sherlock’s ribs, the sunken divots, and he can’t help the tears that flow over, he can’t help the way his throat closes—John can’t help the way he bends at the middle and presses his mouth, soft and slow and overfull, against the centre of Sherlock’s chest.

The breath he draws is shaky when he straightens, but he takes it; he steels himself and begins to clean the only wound he can, begins a healing process in the only place he can.

_______________________________________

 

John won’t pretend that his hands don’t shake now—after the lesion is clean, closed, and Sherlock’s fever remains but hasn’t risen; John won’t pretend his hands don’t shake as he checks Sherlock’s oculomotor nerve function. 

“Look at me,” John commands, and Sherlock’s eyes aren’t their sharpest, hazy, but they obey.

“What is your name?”

Sherlock swallows, flinches as his eyes catch light from the window. “That’s a dull question.”

John rolls his eyes and continues examining his visual fields. “Who’s Prime Minister?”

“A moron,” Sherlock slurs a bit, but the comment is dry enough, and he follows John’s hand when he moves it without too much trouble.

“The earth goes...” John prompts, with a bit of a smirk; even after the solar system made it into the Palace, Sherlock’s never deigned to admit any knowledge of its workings.

“To hell in a hand-basket.” John swallows a chuckle, because that sounds like Sherlock, even though it’s heavy, a sigh, an exertion, and his eyes start to drift closed again, but John just needs one more answer to satisfy his own worry, to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest for the fear, the guilt, the _weight_ of this, all of it.

“Where are you?” John asks, and Sherlock pauses, opens his eyes and squints, focuses on John alone before he states, clearly:

“With you.”

The chuckling dies, and John feels his pulse when he swallows, hard.

“It’s not so serious,” Sherlock tells him, softly, as his eyes slide closed again; “your mouth, here,” and Sherlock gestures vaguely, nearly hits John’s cheek with his swirling ring finger; “it would be less of a frown and more of a line, tighter,” he searches for the word; “less of a,” Sherlock’s eyes ease open, just slits as he ponders John for an instant before giving up with a hum.

“Not so serious,” John scoffs, torn between rage and heartbreak. “You collapsed, you’re dehydrated, this wound is infected, I’m almost afraid to check the other ones,” he leans in, and presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead again to check, just to check. “You’ve a fever high enough to justify hallucinations, for fuck’s sake.”

Sherlock continues to consider John dispassionately, his eyes fluttering closed for long moments before opening, staring without focus—aimless, and then just this side of terrified before they zero in, before they catch John and there’s relief there, his muscles relax, and his eyes slide closed again. 

John’s not torn anymore; the rage is all but gone.

“You can’t do this,” John forces out, hoarse. “You cannot keep risking yourself like this.” Sherlock’s eyes stay on him, soft, languid, and oh, the love in them _hurts_.

“He promised to burn you,” John gathers Sherlock’s hands in his own, thumbs across the proximal phalanges; “and I know that haunts you, I know you can’t quite shake it.” John brings Sherlock’s hands to his lips and kisses the low valleys between the knuckles; “but it’ll burn _me_ if I lose you.” 

“He’s done it,” Sherlock  murmurs, and when _his_ hands shake, John steadies them, tamps down the urge to shudder, to sob. “He is doing it,” Sherlock breathes; “burning.”

“We’re going to take care of that,” John speaks into Sherlock’s palms.

“When you’re not here to stop it,” Sherlock continues, hearing but not taking in. “Always.”

And John can’t bear it, it tugs at him, it makes him feel lost when he needs most to be an anchor, needs to moor them both and steer them true.

“Do you remember what I told you,” John murmurs, steady; “that first night?”

“I would have died for you that night without a single thought,” John reminds him, and Sherlock's gaze, the way his breath holds, bated; John knows he remembers it just as clearly, just as certain, the lingering chlorine and the texture of their tongues.

“But now, Sherlock,” John exhales, runs the pad of his thumb along Sherlock’s clavicle; “now, when you have all of me, when you make up the most crucial parts of my cosmos,” and Sherlock gasps, for the words or John’s touch, it’s unclear, if it ever mattered, if it ever could.

“Sherlock, I’d give you heaven and earth, the least I can do is keep this safe, keep us as whole as I can and it’ll take searing,” John tells him, stares into him and Sherlock—clear for a moment that may or may not last in those eyes—stares back. “It’ll crack and it might bend and we might not recognise it by sight but we’ll survive this,” John promises, and Sherlock gazes back as if he believes; “we will survive intact, do you understand?”

Sherlock doesn’t nod, but John touches their lips together and speaks against that mouth: “The burning won’t last, love,” he breathes it; “not forever.”

Sherlock’s eyes are glassy with the fever, yes, but with something more as well when he whispers: “I love you.”

John’s voice is strained, and his breathing harsh as he draws Sherlock in gently, holds him close to his chest; “I know,” John nods against Sherlock’s head tucked tight beneath his chin. “I know.”

“You are more than worth the fire, you are more than a heart,” Sherlock speaks, muffled against John’s skin but no less than earnest, profound. “You are greater than the work,” and John draws back, reluctant, eases Sherlock back down to his makeshift bed.

“Marry me.” The words come from nowhere, are wholly unprecedented and yet they feel right.

“What?” John asks, voice low as Sherlock’s eyes focus on him, as he sinks into the harsh bedding.

“Would you?” Sherlock considers him, sceptical and hopeful, childlike and jaded in the same moment, the same space. “I know,” Sherlock pauses, swallows, starts again. “I know it’s not what you hoped for, what you’d envisioned,” Sherlock’s eyes dart, frantic for a moment before he breathes out, closes them and clenches his fists in the pseudo-blanket that is John’s jacket tucked at his waist. “I know I’m not,” Sherlock stumbles, hesitant, bleeding into desperate: “But John, you are—” 

“Shh,” John chides, smoothes hands down Sherlock's chest and up again, to frame his face. “Quiet now, you need rest, you’ll ride this out and everything will be better in the morning,”

“Such a small word,” Sherlock murmurs, fading now, and the word he means is vague, unclear, and yet John feels its weight, its promise. “It cannot possibly hold something so vast, why do they want it to hold more than it’s made for, they’ll break it, they’ll stretch it out into something wretched and it’ll never be whole again, it’ll never fit the pieces,” Sherlock’s voice shatters on the word, and John’s heart starts to shatter with it. “They can’t _break_ it...”

“Sherlock,” John soothes, leaning close enough so that his heat is clear even if Sherlock’s eyes are closed. “Shh, darling, just relax,” and Sherlock moans as John rearranges him, but eventually he gives, goes limp; “that’s it, love,” John tells him, soft and warm; “that’s it.”

“Never leave me,” Sherlock whimpers, and John takes both his hands in his and squeezes, tries to cement his presence for just this night the best he can. “I couldn’t,” Sherlock tries, grasps for something ephemeral, untouched; “I’m afraid.” 

“I’m here,” John breathes; “I’m here, and there is nothing to be afraid of as long as I’m here, do you understand?”

Sherlock says nothing for a time, and John’s hands stay clasped around Sherlock fingers until finally, _finally_ , he loosens, goes boneless, teeters on sleep.

“When this is over,” Sherlock murmurs, half-senseless as he drifts; “when this is over, I’ll do it right.”

John doesn’t know for certain what he means, but he hopes in his own way.

He hopes.


	12. To Sing Louder Than A Sob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would have jumped from that rooftop with all honest aims toward destruction,” Sherlock whispers, starting at the floor, breath hitching; “and it would have hurt far less than this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my thanks to [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) for her awesome.

As a doctor, a soldier; as a human being, John’s been woken up in the middle of the night by something horrible more times than he likes to recall. A coding patient as he dozed in the on-call room. Enemy fire just past twilight. Next-of-kin calls for his parents; emergency contact calls for Harry when she’s gone too hard on the drink. 

John’s no stranger to waking up to bad news.

So when his phone rings at quarter past one, it shouldn’t surprise him. When he answers the private number, he should know who it is, what it’s for. When he recognises the voice on the other end, he should be ready for it.

“John,” Mycroft tells him, his normally calm tone harried, his breath laboured; “something’s happened.”

John’s woken up to bad news before.

It’s never felt quite like this.

________________________________________________________

It’s not that John ever thought they’d been exaggerating Moriarty’s reach, but when Mycroft tells him that INTERPOL’s been actively seeking the man Sherlock’s cornered in Hell’s Kitchen, it all seems suddenly bigger, more insurmountable than ever before; when Mycroft tells John he’s lost the trace he’d established on Sherlock—on Sherlock, which is disastrous enough, but also on his quarry.

And as far as targets go: Alendros Michaelson is armed, dangerous, has every drug dealer on the island of Manhattan nestled firmly in his pocket, and may or may not have a toe dipped in international arms dealing; specifically, ties to the genocide in Darfur.

So John doesn’t even question the logic, the wisdom behind the scheme Mycroft lays out for him: fly to JFK, track Sherlock down, save his infuriating hide from a conscienceless mass murdering drug lord, and use top secret government files on an encrypted memory stick to buy information or mercy, or both, as required.

In retrospect, John should have questioned.

Instead, what John does is to pour himself a glass of the scotch on Mycroft’s desk, perched open at his elbow; pours it himself because Mycroft doesn’t offer, merely sits with his head propped between both palms and his eyes glassy, sightless, and if Mycroft’s fingers are twitching and his breathing is shallow, and if John downs his glass like a shot and doesn’t even flinch, well. 

The world’s a different place, these days, for the two of them.

“Do you ever wake,” Mycroft startles John from the lull of warmth spreading through him from the drink; he speaks quietly, somewhere between inhaling and exhaling, static, a hiss; “and wonder whether it’s all a dream, a delusion.” 

Mycroft sucks in a breath, too harsh, and John winces at the way the elder Holmes stares at him, the way those eyes look sunken and drawn, dimmed, ruby at the edges. “Whether we made him immortal because the alternative was...”

“Every night,” John confesses bluntly, because god help him, it’s true. “Every single night.”

There is silence, the tense kind that vibrates and disorients, makes its victims feel faint; there is silence for a time, and then Mycroft speaks, almost inaudible, just this side of shattered: “He’s all I have.”

And John looks closer, really _sees_ Mycroft Holmes in that instant: sees the lines drawn at the corners of the mouth and the strained muscles around the neck, too much alcohol and fear racing in the blood beneath sallow skin, and something lost behind that gaze, those eyes—a child, still, who has to be strong and doesn’t know how when all he knows has left him.

John knows exactly how that feels.

“Listen to me,” John walks forward, leans down and waits until Mycroft turns because he needs to, because it’s instinct when John’s perched so damned close. “We’re going to bring him home, you and I,” and John reaches out, lays a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and grips tight: “All right?”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but John can read the softness, the scared little boy clinging to the truths he needs, rather than those he can confirm, and yes, John can give those. 

John can give those here and now.

“And, well,” John swallows, looks away for a moment before steeling himself and allowing his eyes to meet Mycroft’s straight on once more. 

“You’ve got me in the meantime,” John states it, vows it, and he watches the slow transformation as Mycroft's eyes regain their focus, their fortitude, as Mycroft relaxes and stiffens all at once, settling back into himself and yet retaining more of the give, remaining just that little bit malleable, that touch unsure, and John doesn’t remove his hand from Mycroft’s shoulder, not until the man inhales sharply and pins John with his gaze this time, commanding it—though kindly—rather than clutching to it.

“You are singular beyond reckoning, John,” Mycroft tells him, and it almost seems tinged with awe; John is certain he’s never heard higher praise from the elder Holmes than that.

“And he loves you,” Mycroft continues, imbuing it with a weight John feels in his chest like fire. “Not just, in his way, or more than we’d ever dreamt he could manage,” Mycroft sighs, and fixes John with a stare that wills him to understand things John’s known forever. 

“He loves you more than a person should rightly be able to feel, any human being,” Mycroft says, deadly serious; “Of all the doubts you might have, please,” Mycroft looks down, then, and his voice breaks, snaps fully down the centre as he trails off; “don’t ever let that be one of them.”

John takes a minute to process the words that are said, yes, but perhaps more than that, he needs to make them whole with the feeling that suffuses them, that seeps into John as he stands there, watching and thinking and feeling and needing in his own ways for his own reasons that are the same and so very different from the ones held by the man before him, the man who is family, now, in his way.

John sighs, and turns to the desk.

“Look,” John starts, rummaging for something that doesn’t look too official, coming across a monographed pad of notepaper and ripping off a good-sized corner. “The next time you wake up,” John scribbles on the  paper and slides it across the desk, straightening, watching Mycroft’s face for a reaction, for understanding of what John can’t quite say.

Mycroft glances at the scrap of paper, studies what John’s written, and his eyes furrow, but he doesn’t frown; he looks up, meets John’s eyes with a curiosity that catches in the pulse of his heart because oh, that look is a family trait indeed. 

“You know that I already have access to your mobile number,” Mycroft points to the digits on the note, but John just rolls his eyes.

“Obviously,” John snarks, but it’s a soft sort of tone that fills his voice. “It’s called a gesture, you prick,” John tells him, but the words have only fondness, lack any bite.

“Indeed,” Mycroft finally says with a slow nod, and it’s almost as if the man is absorbing something cosmic, adjusting to a paradigm shift, given the way he breathes in slowly, the way he blinks in lengthy waves, and John can appreciate that, sure, but his eyes keep glancing at the printout of his boarding pass: he has his own paradigm-shifting man to save.

“The files?” John finally asks, and Mycroft startles, returns to the present outside of his mind with a jolt.

“Right,” and Mycroft reaches for the papers on the printer, grabs for a flash drive and hands them to John with a quiet look, and nothing more.

“Get some rest,” John tells him with a pointed look; hopes it says more than just the words but he doesn’t, can’t wait to see if they seem to have any impact, if they seem to carry any weight.

Not now.

________________________________________________________

It’s not that John hadn’t seen Sherlock’s expression when the gun had fired, when John had crumbled to the ground; he had, and he’d known exactly what was going through Sherlock’s mind in the moment before John groaned, louder than necessary but needing, _needing_ to let Sherlock know he was still breathing so that Sherlock could take out the last of Michaelson’s men before either of them took another hit.

Sherlock had been adamant about a hospital, but John had known they couldn’t risk it, and the wound wasn’t deep—just a graze, really, and he could walk Sherlock through patching him up once they got back to the hotel: a gorgeous place on the outskirts of the city, far above John’s pay-grade, and as Sherlock had been relatively easy to track—John hadn’t even had to give up any state secrets to find him, in the end—and he’d only used a day and a half of his seven-day reservation. It’d be fine.

So it wasn’t that John hadn’t seen Sherlock’s expression when he’d gone down—shocked, pained, breaking and yet already broken; it’s more that he didn’t process how that would translate, what that would mean once the danger was distant, once the doors were closed and they were alone in their room, seated in the palatial bedroom, Sherlock tending diligently to John’s bleeding upper arm but silent, too stiff, far away.

John’s chest, as it happens, aches more than his biceps, where the bullet tore the skin.

Sherlock’s hand stills over the last bandage, open-palmed, and it takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock’s frozen entirely, isn’t moving: barely breathing, just staring.

“Hey,” John shifts, brings a hand to cup Sherlock’s face; “you all right?”

John isn’t prepared for the way Sherlock flinches, gasps and pulls away from the touch when it reaches his face; John isn’t prepared for the way it twists in his stomach, the look of anguish and fury layered thick in Sherlock’s eyes.

“All right,” Sherlock sneers, rises to his feet where John still sits on the marble ledge of the jacuzzi; John watches Sherlock’s bare feet, wet from his ministrations to John’s wound in the bath, leaving footprints on the stone, and John’s not sure why he notices, why he pays it any mind.

John’s not sure of much, really, just now. 

“It is beyond my grasp of human emotion, I think,” Sherlock says, and it’s the lack of any feeling in his words, their utter blankness, that cues John to just how wrong this is, how wrong something’s gone, whatever it is; “to ever comprehend how you can imagine that this, _this_ , could ever possibly be anything remotely close to _all right_.”

“Sherlock,” John starts, pleading, placating, he isn’t sure, but Sherlock, apparently, is in no state to let him figure it out; to let him finish.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Sherlock tells him stoically, and yet there is so much, so much just barely reined and looking to spill out inside that throat, and Sherlock swallows hard, too frequently to keep it contained; it stings in John’s bones to see the struggle, the way Sherlock can’t quite trust that John will take whatever words he’s hiding and take them, respect them, value them as parts of Sherlock’s mind, Sherlock’s soul. 

“I’ve dreamt every possible permutation of this. A sniper, a stray bullet. One of them finding you, killing you on Baker Street,” Sherlock’s voice catches before it can crack, but John feels the fracture resonate, rumble through him nonetheless.

“The worst is when you fall and I can feel your blood warm against my skin as you struggle to breathe your last,” and this time, John can hear it, the strain as Sherlock’s composure stretches wide to rending, the hysterical note that seeps in as he adds: “And yet it’s me who’s drowning.”

John reaches out when Sherlock paces close to him, but Sherlock dodges it, is careful not to tread too close again and that hurts.

Oh, but it hurts.

“They were always there,” Sherlock pauses, standing across the room and staring at the floor, at the wet tracks trailing back and forth as he gazes ahead of him into oblivion, his hand at the centre of his chest, pawing idly at the skin through his damp shirt. “It was always here,” he whispers, and his hand stills, open; his eyes stare, lost.

“I know,” John breathes out, makes to stand, to comfort his partner, his lover because yes, John knew; he’d never thought Sherlock the sociopath he claimed, of course, but after things changed, after they’d become what they are, of course John knew how deep his lover’s feelings ran; how open that heart was, despite all attempts to seal it shut.

“Do you?” Sherlock snaps, his voice sharp now, and yet leaden with despair, and it stops John dead in his tracks as Sherlock pins him with narrowed eyes: vicious, cornered, seeing straight through him.

“Do you _know_ , John?” Sherlock bites out, but a sob is on its heels. “Because I locked them away for a reason, because the pain was unbearable, the torment, the unpredictable ruin. They were vile, they were cruel, and so I made my own feelings into villains, I cursed my own heart as an interloper and I condemned the neurotransmitters that made me ache to isolation because they were not worth it, they had never been worth the distraction, yes, but more, always more, they were never worth the agony.”

When Sherlock stops for breath, John’s convinced he steals all the air away in a single inhale; John himself feels the burn in his lungs for the lack of oxygen, the way Sherlock’s words choke him raw.

“And then, there was you,” Sherlock says it, an accusation and a prayer, grateful and damned. “There was you, and when the prison walls began to crumble because they’d never been built to hold the likes of you, you promised,” Sherlock sucks in air, his eyes wide and vulnerable and accusing, and John feels the cut of the charges levelled, knows they’re valid and god, but it stings. 

“You promised it would be worth it,” Sherlock reminds him, resents; “you promised that feeling could be beautiful, could be liberating and that a heart could sing louder than it could sob and I believed you, John,” and there’s an edge to his voice that collapses, that twists into violent ruin and John can’t bear to hear it, to know that Sherlock feels it to his core, to think that John caused it, even if he never meant to. “I believed you, and I took you in and asked your help in tearing down those walls, in locking away the urge to rebuild them ever again in a far stronger prison, behind barriers that were you, that were strong like you.”

“You promised, John, that you would be there to protect the atrophied parts as they flexed, as they grew strong on their own,” and Sherlock has to pause, has to breathe deep and John watches every shift of his expression as he tries to school it, tries to hold himself whole, and John wants to move, wants to go to him and yet when Sherlock speaks, he can’t, he can’t because Sherlock looks at him, then, stares into him and stops him cold because he’s raw in a way John hasn’t seen before, he’s rubbed harsh to the bone and John can’t breathe for the way Sherlock’s gaze seems to _seethe_ with utter misery. 

“You promised, and then you sent me away and told me to fight without my only armour, told me to wage war with my only weapon damaged. And now here I am, distracted, unmoored and bleeding alongside the burning,” Sherlock turns, runs shaking hands through his hair in an attempt to calm himself, a tick John noticed long before he earned the privilege to take up the charge and stroke Sherlock’s curls to calm him, soothe him instead. “I cannot protect you for all the worry, for the fear and the way it clouds my senses, I cannot protect myself for the way you’ve hidden, erased my ability to sever myself, to lock it all away.” 

Sherlock chokes, and his words are thin as he finishes, trembling: “I cannot heal my own self so as to save you. I cannot...”

“Damnit, John, I trusted,” Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth; “I _trusted_ , and maybe that was my first mistake.”

John wants to cross the distance, but he feels something harsher, more lethal than a bullet rip through him with those words, with what they imply, with what they tell him he’s broken; what they signal he may have lost without even knowing it.

Except he’d feared it, if he’s honest. He’d feared from the start that this would end with more loss than either of them could bear.

“I would have jumped from that rooftop with all honest aims toward destruction,” Sherlock whispers, starting at the floor, breath hitching; “and it would have hurt far less than this.”

With that confession, the spell breaks, the entropy dissipates and John’s pulse pounds in his veins because the image of Sherlock on the pavement, those uncertain hours: they haunt John like a plague and the thought of Sherlock having been lost for good that day, the thought of John never seeing him again, never holding him, never hearing his voice, never feeling his warmth and sleeping wrapped against him, never breathing the same air as that brilliant, beautiful man—

John crosses the space between them in a heartbeat.

“Look at me,” John folds his hand under Sherlock’s chin and lifts his head, seeks his gaze and feels the ground give way as he sees the tear tracks, perfect lines from Sherlock’s wide, pain-worn eyes.

“I told you,” John breathes, brushing away the tears with his thumbs; “I told you my heart was yours, that when you burned, I burned with you, and I know it doesn’t feel like it,” he cuts off the protest he knows Sherlock wants to offer but can’t, is too ravaged just now to give. “I know, because it’s new, it’s still new even after,” John shakes his head, because even after _everything_ , Sherlock’s heart’s a fragile thing, and John has seen enough of it to have an idea, the smallest inkling of what it’s suffering, what the cost of this madness has wrought in the flesh. 

“I can only imagine,” John breathes, leans in against Sherlock’s cheek and is grateful, so fucking _grateful_ when Sherlock collapses into him, trusts him now and John won’t let it be a mistake, not here, not ever; he holds Sherlock up and pulls him close, ignores the tug in his wounded arm as he leads Sherlock to the ledge of the vanity by the sink and sits there there, whispers against the shell of Sherlock’s ear: “I’m _sorry_.”

“If I’ve killed some part of you,” John starts to babble as he takes the lead, now, strokes Sherlock’s hair and murmurs into him as he shakes against John’s chest, soundless; “if I’ve ravaged a corner of your soul, I only ever thought to do it because I wanted to save the rest of it, the whole of you, because I’m selfish, Sherlock,” John tells him, remorseful; “and I don’t know if I can breathe without you.”

Except he does know. He knows that he can breathe; it’s just not worth it. 

Not even close.

“And if I betrayed you, if I betrayed what you gave to me, what you entrusted me with when we started this, if you opened yourself and I threw some bit of what we have to the wolves without meaning to, if I left you unprotected, if you were left bleeding and I couldn’t stop it,” John gasps into Sherlock’s hair, and his own tears fall against Sherlock’s scalp now as he presses a kiss to his head; “there will never be words to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

John thinks he might be spent, think he may have given his all and still fallen short of his sins; he’s terrified, and his heart is pounding so hard that it hurts, until Sherlock’s hands grasp, fist against the front of John’s shirt: desperate clinging.

John breathes out, and there’s more in him. For this, for Sherlock, there is more.

“But I am yours,” John whispers into Sherlock’s skin. “I am yours, and you can hate me, you can send me away and you can tell me we’re done, but I will never stop putting myself between you and the world, Sherlock. I am yours,” John eases back for an instant, and gathers the hands Sherlock’s fisted against him and flattens them to the centre of his chest.

“My heart is yours,” John says it again, means it entirely; “it’s really only in my own best interest to keep it beating.”

“I love you,” Sherlock murmurs into the base of John’s neck: half-moans, all pain and passion, need and regret. “I love you, and I miss you,” Sherlock falters, and John can feel the wetness gather when he blinks; “I don’t know how to steel myself against what it feels like not to have you,” Sherlock sucks in air like a trial; “and watching you fall was,” he swallows, and John takes his hands and squeezes them, offers presence and grounding and all of the love he’d never dreamed of holding in his body, in his soul.

“It was indescribable,” Sherlock finishes, tucking his face into John’s skin again, and John hopes he does it because it’s safe there, because he feels at home in John’s arms, and isn’t merely pressed against him because there is nothing else, because he’s been bled dry and can’t hold himself up alone.

“I can relate to that, you know,” John offers, means to say it with half-hearted quirk of his lips but he can’t, it’s all too near and so he leans down, presses his mouth to the visible corner of Sherlock’s for just an instant before he pulls back, frames Sherlock’s face with his hands and eases him upward, whispers with everything he is: “I’m sorry, darling,” and then lower, pitched against the curve of Sherlock’s bottom lip: “I am so very, very sorry.” 

“I need you, John,” Sherlock exhales; “I need you.”

“You have me,” John assures him, swears it to the universe, to any god listening and willing to hold him to it; “All of me, Sherlock Holmes, all the broken pieces.” 

“Is this always the price?” Sherlock asks, voice barely a rasp; “Of needing so deeply? Of,” he stumbles, his breath thin, tripping out his throat in the guise of a sob: “Of loving so much?”

John tightens his hold around Sherlock’s shoulders, desperate to make him understand that for all the distance, John never left him, John hasn’t, won’t ever _go_ anywhere, even if that fact may never be _enough_.

“Most people don’t have madmen after their blood from the grave, love,” John tells him softly; “but when I thought you were gone, when you fell and I thought I’d lost you for good, nothing’s ever been more painful.”

Sherlock shifts in his hold and turns, settles the side of his head against John’s chest as if to listen to the words as they come: “The more you care, I think,” John whispers, a hand coming up to cradle the back of Sherlock’s neck; “the more it will always hurt.”

“It is worth it,” Sherlock finally says, and John feels his heart relax where he hadn’t quite known it’d tensed. “You are more than worth it,” Sherlock turns back to kiss the centre of John’s chest through his shirt before pulling back, looking up at John with shining eyes, far too filled with grief; “I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” John stops him, shakes his head; “you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Sherlock blinks, observes. “Neither do you.”

“I did this,” John counters mournfully. “I told you to fight and I put us at odds even in racing toward the same finish,” John swallows hard, because this has been weighing on him since the beginning and even then, he’d thought it wretched, unconscionable.

And yet, it’s weighed on _Sherlock_ so much more heavily, so much worse, and that may very well be _unbearable_. 

“This is my fault,” John gives the guilt a voice; it doesn’t help, and he feels his own eyes begin to sting as he looks away, as his chest clenches and his lungs burn. 

“If not for me, he’d never have found us,” Sherlock protests, breathless, and John can feel Sherlock’s chest heave with it against his own chest, against his skin; “if I wasn’t—”

“What, Sherlock?” John asks, a bit sharp, too open. “If you weren’t _you_? If you weren’t the man I fell in love with?” The fight bleeds out as he folds himself closer to Sherlock and exhales: “If you weren’t the man I wake up for in the morning and think of last before I go to sleep?”

Sherlock is quiet against him, but his breathing calms, and that’s something.

“We wouldn’t have survived running,” Sherlock says finally, resigned; “you were right.”

“I wish I hadn’t been,” John tells him, honest; “I’ve almost destroyed us in the process,” he laments, just a bit, as he reaches to twist Sherlock’s curls around his fingers in thought, in penance; “almost killed you in more ways than one.”

John lifts Sherlock’s lips to his and kisses him gently; feels renewed when Sherlock responds, passionate and desperate and fuck, yes, with the same love as ever, and John knows they’re not broken, not beyond repair.

Not yet.

“You saved us,” Sherlock mouths against him; “you’ve saved me so many times.”

“Only half as many as you’ve saved me,” John murmurs; “you’re out here fighting, and all I can do is to work the surgery, commiserate with your brother, drink with Greg, and worry,” and it all feels so small, when he says it, even if it shouldn’t, not when that worry almost kills him every day and yet, in comparison, seeing Sherlock here and knowing how much he endures—John feels infinitesimal by contrast.

But Sherlock shakes his head, back and forth as he stares at John, seems to struggle with the words before they come. “You live, John,” he finally manages; “you live, and the thought of you safe keeps me focused, keeps me driven,” Sherlock runs a thumb down John’s lips, and those eyes on him are a balm and a boon and god, John would be weak in the knees if they were standing. 

“The thought of you alive and well makes this bearable,” Sherlock whispers, “if only just.”

John closes his eyes to will away the burn in them, the rising tide of feeling in his throat as he gasps: “Is it almost done?” Because John doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last like this; doesn’t know how much more he can put Sherlock’s through and still live with himself in the end. 

“God, I hope so,” Sherlock chokes out, half-hysterical, a mottled sob. “I hope so.”

They hold to each other, then, and John wants to believe they’ll survive this. John needs to believe they’ll survive.

“Mycroft’s got us this place for the rest of the week,” John tells him, softly, for want of anything else to say just then, for the need of Sherlock safe for a few scant days, tucked against John’s body, the reminder of home and warmth and the way his heart can fill with the presence of the man who owns it, through and through. “The US government’s involved, we’ll be safe.”

“You’ll have time to recover,” Sherlock nods, stands, straightens himself and studies John for a moment; John watches his throat work around the way he swallows. “You’ll be all right again soon,” Sherlock finally proclaims with a nod, and offers a hand which John takes willingly as Sherlock leads them out of the bathroom and toward the bed beyond.

“I’ll be with you,” John tells him, and squeezes the hand in his; “that’s all I need to be all right.”


	13. All The Interstices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you remember the first night?” John asks softly.
> 
> “We’ve had so many first nights, John,” Sherlock answers him, his voice far, but so warm, and John relishes the way that Sherlock’s arms around him tighten, their chests pressed impossibly close. “I remember all of them.”

John’s memory isn’t flawless, he admits that. Sometimes he forgets whether he remembered to sign a patient’s chart. Can’t quite recall the date of his sister’s now-irrelevant anniversary. Sometimes has to look up the ingredients for his grandmother’s infamous rum balls.

The fact remains: John doesn’t ever recall seeing Mycroft Holmes quite so agitated; quite so scared.

“If he tries to resist,” Mycroft starts, but John doesn’t give him a chance to finish.

“He won’t,” and he’s confident enough to keep studying the itinerary in his hands; he doesn’t need to look up.

Mycroft’s expression tightens, his lips thin impossibly as his colouring borders on grey. “The intelligence we have on his current targets suggests that the man heading this operation was assigned to eliminate your dear Mrs. Hudson in the event of Sherlock’s. Well.” Mycroft swallows hard. John can pick out the pump of blood at the carotid before Mycroft straightens, and there’s something about this that’s different, then. Something about this that has the British Government spooked.

“He will be insistent about his methods for eliminating the threat,” Mycroft finishes, his chin angled too high, too indignant. He’s compensating.

John tries to fight off the rise of bile in his throat, he tells himself that this is nothing, just an op, just people, and John knows people. John can predict people.

John can kill _people_ , and this will be resolved.

It has to be resolved.

“Mycroft,” John says his name slowly, carefully, folding the paperwork and placing it back on the desk in front of him, trusting what’s necessary to be burned into his mind, and what’s not burned to be sent to his phone. 

“I love your brother more than life itself. I’d die for him in a heartbeat,” and it’s true, it’s truer than any fact John’s ever known. “I know him better than most. Believe me when I tell you I’m more than capable of reasoning with him when the stakes are this high.”

Mycroft’s jaw works for a long moment, and John realises how tired the man looks, how weary, how weathered—more so than before, older than anything thus far has pushed him towards—and it strikes fear into John’s heart in a way that the numbers, the profiles, the timetable and the urgency of this plan didn’t quite incite on their own.

Mycroft Holmes is not merely unsettled. Mycroft Holmes is _terrified_.

The world might be ending, John realises, and he knows what that entails.

He grits his teeth. Yes, he knows what that entails, and it is unacceptable.

John Watson needs to stop the world from ending. Okay. All right. Right. Yes.

He squares his shoulders. He can do that.

“Find him, John,” Mycroft breathes, sighs, hisses through clenched teeth. “Find him, and keep him from doing something monumentally reckless.”

“I don’t have to stop him,” John shakes his head, resisting the urge to feel for his gun, to check its place. He breathes in deeply, tries to temper the adrenaline that’s already coursing through him, tries to convince himself that he’ll be in time, he’ll get there, he’ll find Sherlock and everything will be okay, because they made sacrifices, they broke the world to keep it from falling apart, and John will be _damned_ if it was all in vain.

“I just have to help him rethink his angle so that he doesn’t end up getting himself killed,” John reasons, but even he isn’t sure if he believes it.

John fears, if he’s honest, that he might be damned after all.

Mycroft frowns, and the lines near his eyes are drawn so very deep. “I’d sleep better if you stopped him outright, John.”

John scoffs, zips his jacket. “I’d sleep better at the Dorchester with my partner next to me and no one out for our blood. We care for Sherlock Holmes,” he shrugs, “we’re not cut out for a good night’s sleep.”

He gives a final nod in Mycroft’s direction before he leaves, his steps taking a brisk pace toward the door.

He’s got a plane to catch.

____________________________________

Upon landing in Vancouver, John tracks Sherlock easily; Mycroft’s coordinates are precise, and his intelligence is accurate: sentries exactly where they’re meant to be, easily disposed of, predictable floor plan, even the stairs take an easy incline.

John keeps his breathing steady as he moves, silent as possible, and he almost misses it, almost misses the subtle rasping—rasping he recognises, and John’s throat tightens because it _has_ all been _far too easy_ , and John is damn sure it’s not coincidence, it’s not Mycroft who’s stepped up his game.

It’s Sherlock who is slipping, because John can hear him. John can’t see him, but John knows exactly where he is, recognises the radius of the radiating heat pouring off of him, the height of him obvious like echolocation: John’s heart is pounding because he’s found Sherlock, and it was all too simple.

 _Anyone_ could have done it.

 _Christ_ , but he feels sick.

John’s steps are careful as he comes up behind Sherlock, but suddenly it’s less about the threat around them, and more about the threat within, the threat of missteps and exhaustion and overwhelming odds and _need_ and the way John feels immediately halved, unconscionably aware of the fact that he is not what he wants to be, not what he’s meant to be, not in possession of the blood that his veins desire, that his heart sees fit to pump until he is with Sherlock, until Sherlock is near him and is safe.

God damnit _all_.

“Stay very still,” John mouths, barely breathes into the shell of Sherlock’s ear; he feels first the tension, and then the deep, silent exhale that smoothes Sherlock’s lines against John’s chest where they’re pressed this close. John can feel his own heartbeat against Sherlock’s spine, and it’s thrilling, it’s terrifying, the adrenaline bounding through him as drinks in Sherlock’s presence, his scent without getting lost in it, ever-mindful of where they are, what they must do.

“We need to get out of here,” John’s lips spell, and Sherlock’s chin dips in acknowledgement. There’s shuffling in the room beyond them, too much noise, too many people: outnumbered, just as the reports said, just as Mycroft had predicted, and John’s body is primed for response, his arms wrapping around Sherlock’s frame and flattening him to the wall, making them small, invisible in the dark, and Sherlock moulds to him, folds into John’s contours and fills them. John’s got Sherlock’s thrumming pulse running wild under his hand as they wait, holding breaths they can’t spare, until they both deem their position safe enough to move again.

Sherlock grabs for John’s wrist as John makes to pull away, taps out a sequence that John picks up at the second long press of Sherlock’s index finger, three long measures of John’s pulse and then stillness before picking back up with a swift tap; ‘-ollow me.’

_Follow me._

John shifts his grip and squeezes the hand in his own; Sherlock laces their fingers for an instant before he moves.

John follows.

____________________________________

John won’t deny the instinctual sigh of relief that envelops him as they step into Sherlock’s rooms: small, sparse; utilitarian, but relatively clean. No pill bottles littering the floor. No rotting food.

The fact is, though, that this is just as foreign, this is just as much a sign of danger for the man he loves, for the man who is standing in the middle of the kitchenette, statuesque, looking at nothing.

John sighs once more, but there’s no relief couched in the breath. 

“Sherlock—”

He doesn’t manage anything more—he doesn’t get to ask the question he doesn’t know the words for—because in an instant, Sherlock’s lips are on his, sucking and drinking as he licks into John’s mouth, as he breathes the air out of his lungs; and John arches into him, into his presence and his desperation, filling whatever gaps he can find, trying, reaching for those he can’t, that are beyond his sight, his sense. John feels the hard thump of his heart against the ribs as Sherlock caresses his neck, his jaw, the short hairs tucked behind his ears, and he’s swimming, drowning, and he hasn’t felt this consumed, this disoriented and reoriented all at once, and it’s terrifying and addicting and beautiful, and John never wants it to end, he—

“Thank you,” Sherlock pulls away, panting hard into the tacky skin at John’s collar, and John can feel the way he trembles, minute little shivers that feel so helpless, so unstoppable. His hands mould to the hard juts of Sherlock’s shoulder blades as he pulls him in, folds their frames together so that Sherlock’s forehead is pressed to John’s, so that Sherlock’s unsteady exhales condense on John’s cheeks. 

They hold there, John holds there, and Sherlock shakes—John sees now—for all the things that have no words.

The streams of air from Sherlock’s lungs give way to softness, to a relative stillness; John can no longer feel Sherlock’s heart where his hands spread flat against his back. They both move, both shift as Sherlock inhales, deep.

There’s silence, before it’s broken.

“It’s very,” Sherlock starts, doesn’t falter so much as lose himself, lose his footing and his way and so John presses in tighter, closer, and reminds him there’s always an anchor, always a foothold where he needs one.

Sherlock seems to understand, because he shudders, inhales full once more and begins again.

“It’s far too easy to forget why it’s essential,” Sherlock whispers against John’s skin, his lower lip catching, leaving moisture against John’s stubble, below his lashes as Sherlock moves, shakes his head back and forth, mourning, praying: a mantra of motion and desperate momentum, and John breaks with it; his own eyes slide closed.

“Why it’s necessary to fight, to stay hidden, out of mortal danger,” Sherlock tenses, and he kisses the space between John’s brows with infinite care, tenderness, and John winces for how much that single gesture _aches_ : “Where they might see.”

“It hurts,” and when Sherlock says it, admits it, states it plain and without hesitation, something snaps in John’s chest and his hand comes up behind Sherlock’s head and pulls him down, pulls Sherlock in and cradles him in the crook of John’s neck, safe, god, _please_ , give them safety here if nowhere else in the world.

“And so I,” Sherlock murmurs into John, his mouth wet against John’s shirt, “I’ve slipped.”

He stays there for a moment, before he straightens just a tad, presses lips to the hollow of John’s throat, the tip of his chin.

“I don’t matter, John,” he breathes, “but you,” and he’s kissing John’s jawline, one side, the other: the dip above John’s lips: “You remind me, here and now,” Sherlock inhales, breathes John in and his voice is thin, wavering when he whispers.

“You’re real,” and it’s almost as if he’s astonished, grateful, and John remembers, remembers as Sherlock repeats it, tucked again John and kissing him, tasting and touching and inhaling his scent: “You’re real, you’re so real.”

John remembers when it started, when Sherlock tried to tell him no, tried to lead him elsewhere, tried to hold to his hand and refuse anything less: he was afraid, John remembers the look of it in those eyes; afraid of some many things, so many wrongs, but one thing shone brighter, burned deeper than so many of those terrors, those uncertain horrors looming.

_Just a long high and cruel crash, that you weren’t a drug-induced haze out of the darkness, the hollow folds of my mind._

John doesn’t know what to say, what to _do_ to make this right, to apologise; John doesn’t know how to make Sherlock see that John is nothing without him, anymore; nothing worth knowing, or having, or breathing to life.

Sherlock pulls back before John has a chance to admit defeat, though, and looks at him with every shred of his soul in those eyes; all the tatters, all the jagged pieces that John’s helped pull and rend, stoke and save: 

“Remind me,” Sherlock pleads, his gaze hot and filled with a need that’s not just about physicality, that’s more tied up in the way his mind processes and the way his heart clenches now like it never did, and John knows it because he knows his lover, his friend.

John knows it, and so he leads them toward the bed in the corner.

If it’s all he can do, here and now; if he’s useless in everything else: John will do this.

John will remind them both.

____________________________________

Sherlock is boneless beneath him, after. His lungs expand in soft waves, and the lines in his face have been smoothed, his eyes are closed as he keeps a light hand on John’s right biceps, grounding. 

_This_ is John’s Sherlock, and John’s own chest feels lighter to have him returned, to see him restored.

“When this is over,” John breathes into Sherlock’s ribcage, and Sherlock shivers when John’s lips drag against his skin, when John’s lashes tease the flesh as he moves over, down; “I’m hiding you away,” and John lets his tongue linger, lets it play along the stark curve of Sherlock’s bones where they’re visible, too clear. 

“We’ll get you fed,” John promises with a slow kiss to Sherlock’s sternum; “and healed,” he sucks against the bud of Sherlock’s left nipple, and Sherlock moans, his heart skips brilliantly, and John smiles as he nuzzles into the centre of that chest. 

“Get you back in your dressing gown and your turned up collars and your coat and that sinful shampoo you use with all the spices.” John breathes out slow, exhales some of the tension in him as Sherlock dips his chin to kiss the crown of John’s head as they settle, sated. “And if I let you out of my sight for any stretch of time, it’ll be a rare thing.”

“And tea,” Sherlock whispers, a fact and a question and a hope all at once. “You’ll make us tea. And other than that, if I let you leave our _bed_ for any stretch of time,” Sherlock leans and kisses John’s head once more, draws him closer, and the heat of his breathing in John’s hair is a beautiful thing in itself; “it will be a rare thing, indeed.”

John laughs into Sherlock’s throat, catching against his lips when Sherlock’s own deep chuckle joins him, and this is what they’re fighting for, this is what they’re aching for. Just this. 

Only this.

“I often wonder,” Sherlock murmurs after a time, his voice low, solemn, but his breathing is still steady under John, his pulse still rhythmic near John’s lips, “what it would have been like, had we not been what we are.” 

John feels Sherlock’s hand press into his own, feels those fingers lace with his and John presses his mouth to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, tender. 

“I think,” Sherlock swallows hard. “I think, perhaps, I would have jumped, just as you said, had I not needed you so deeply, had the sentiment been what it used to be,” Sherlock squeezes their joined hands, a spasm and a hope between them, things they’ve long known language can’t express: “strong but not,” and Sherlock brings their hands up now to his own lips, holds John’s open palm there and breathes against the lines for a long stretch of moments before he breathes.

“Not _this_ ,” he confesses, a little bit raw. “I would have fallen to save you, and I would have struck out to dismantle the web, alone,” and Sherlock kisses his palm again before John eases his hand away to cup Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock turns into his touch, following the contact as he forces out, reedy and heavy and wavering at the edges: “and you would have moved on, lived happily, as you’ve always deserved.”

“No.”

John raises up, straddles Sherlock on his knees and takes his face in both hands as Sherlock looks at him, quizzically, subdued, and they have to end this soon, John knows. They may not last much longer, may not survive much more.

“I’ve loved you for so long, Sherlock,” John tells him with the certainty of gravity and the orbit of the moon. “Had we never taken this step, I would still have mourned you like a lost limb. It’d still have broken my heart to...”

John shakes his head, because it’s so close to the surface, it’s so vicious, it claws at him too often for it not to threaten suffocation, for its hands not to press, not to crush.

“I,” John’s breath catches on barbed wire, bleeds where it snags; “sometimes I, the nightmares,” he pauses, tries to steady the way his heart is quaking and his lungs are spasming as the images, the reminders of what would have been flash through his mind, colourful and poignant as they are too often, almost every night.

“They’re of what it would have been like, if it hadn’t been an act.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash with something wretched, something steeped in longing and agony and guilt, and John doesn’t want that, cannot stand in the face of that, but Sherlock’s lips are on his own before he can do anything more, say anything more. 

“I thought, perhaps, that it would have been easier,” Sherlock exhales, cold somehow against John’s hair; “without this, to have left, to have undertaken this task without such a pull to elsewhere, to the smell of your skin and the taste of you,” Sherlock’s breathing hitches as he leans to lick against John’s skin: “the whole of you.”

He pulls back, and John reads so many things in Sherlock’s eyes, though nothing close to all that is between them, all that’s grown between them and brought them here, and that’s what _John_ needed reminding of, really: they’re only here because this is who they are, who they have become and were they anything less, they’d be elsewhere, they’d be spared.

They’d be paltry imitations of the men they are, together.

“It would have been easier, John,” Sherlock picks back up. “I would have been quicker, more efficient, my mind would have been focused, there would not have been so many missteps, such mistakes as I’ve made. I’d have calculated with greater precision, I’d have leapt with nothing tying me, holding me back, and death would have been a risk, but a worthy one,” and John feels his chest constrict, his stomach drop, because he knows what’s being said here, can envision it, has seen it on the worst nights, and no, that can’t—

No.

“I would have moved without fear,” Sherlock tells him, almost moans as his hands come to fold over John’s chest, resting there as Sherlock’s eyes draw away, unable to connect, so his palms take the lead, pressing close: “less fear, at the very least.”

His gaze flickers upward, and it burns: “You’ve changed me,” he whispers, and it is a shift in axes, poles reversing, for all the weight that it holds.

John feels his pulse, his breathing as held under Sherlock’s hands, and it’s unbearable, it’s unfathomable, but he belongs to his man, and this man belongs to him.

 _Jesus_ , just— _this_.

“You’ve changed me and sometimes it terrifies me, sometimes I am enraged by it,” Sherlock confesses in alignment with the rush of John’s blood.

“And yet I could never regret it,” Sherlock breathes, and John moves, gathers Sherlock’s hands between them and kisses him with the same fervour, the same world-ending need that Sherlock’s shown him, given him, etched across his flesh and Sherlock’s tongue traces the line of his teeth and John can’t fight the moan that builds in his throat as they drink one another in, intoxicating; can’t fight the need to stay close when they finally break apart, when John settles on Sherlock’s chest once more and draws promises on his skin in a language neither knows.

“Do you remember the first night?” John asks softly.

“We’ve had so many first nights, John,” Sherlock answers him, his voice far, but so warm, and John relishes the way that Sherlock’s arms around him tighten, their chests pressed impossibly close. “I remember all of them.”

“The first night, before it was,” John struggles a bit to think of how to say it, how to describe it: “after the pool.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement, his fingertips dancing along John’s sides.

“You said that you didn’t want to remember what the world looked like outside of this, outside of us,” Sherlock recalls, exhales the words likes he’s lost in it, bathed in the memory; “I told you that you were everything.”

John feels suddenly, overwhelmingly full with things he can’t express or name; he hits his head under Sherlock’s chin and stays there until it passes.

Except it doesn’t, and he isn’t sure he wants it to.

“I believed that,” Sherlock murmurs; “I believed that with every cell of me, that night.” He cranes his neck a bit and presses his lips to the crown of Johns’ head.

“How was I to know what lies beyond all things? How was I to know you would become so much more?” Sherlock asks him, and it suffuses John with unimaginable heat. “All the things I cannot fathom, save that I know that they are you.”

John thinks that perhaps he is shaking, just a tad, because it doesn’t matter how many times Sherlock astounds him with his brilliance, or his daring, his arrogance or his loyalty: John will never stop being floored by the sheer depths of that man’s hidden heart, won’t ever fail to be amazed that it’s not hidden, not anymore.

Not from _him_.

“You are all the interstices, John,” Sherlock tells him. “I did not understand what was meant by a soul until you slept against me for the first time, and our breathing came in tandem, and your heart would...” 

Sherlock trails off, his hand coming to rest on the back of John’s neck, teasing the hairs there as their breathing comes in time, their heartbeats tripping a bit between their lungs until Sherlock heaves a shaky sigh, breaks the stasis; kisses John’s temple and wraps him tight against his body once more.

“You know that I will finish this,” Sherlock vows. “I will finish this if it takes every breath left in my body, John.”

“And I will be there,” John promises in return, clutching Sherlock to him just as tightly. “I will be there, and I will breathe for you if I have to, do you understand?” 

John pulls away, and Sherlock moves to stay him, to keep him, but John needs to see Sherlock, needs to look into those eyes and make certain that this is made clear.

“There are no goodbyes in this, between us,” John tells him, unwavering. “There can’t be. Not after all this.”

Sherlock stares into him, and John feels for a moment the familiar duelling of exposure and unparalleled reverence swirling in his veins under that gaze before Sherlock blinks. Nods.

“They cannot be allowed to walk free from this,” Sherlock tells him, and they’re rooted again in the now, and John thinks about sleeping better, and he knows that for all they wish it otherwise, Sherlock is right. 

“No,” John agrees. “They can’t.”

They’ll come up with a plan in the morning.

____________________________________

The hideout, when they approach, is just as easily navigated as it was the first time John set foot inside.

The problem, of course, is that despite their best efforts, and Mycroft’s resources—both willingly given by the elder Holmes and covertly manipulated by Sherlock on their end—John still took out a handful of men when he went to pull Sherlock back from the edge of stupidity.

And there aren’t many idiots in the world who don’t take that as a sign to increase security, to add a few patrols.

It’s no surprise, then, that once they’ve up the stairs and near the heart of the lair, or else, what they assume to be as much, they’ve now had to fight through roughly three times the guards John had faced on his own; three times, but there are two of them this time, and together they’re more than they manage apart, and so it’s a more or less even fight, in the end, and while John’s nose is bloody and Sherlock’s got a bruise forming around his left eye that’s sure to sting for a good week or more—while Sherlock’s shot three people straight through the head and John’s snapped a neck and feels worse about the fact that he’s not sorry than he does about the act itself: despite everything, they’re both whole.

Maybe John was wrong. Maybe they could have survived on the run. Maybe they could have won, and saved themselves this breaking, this heartache.

He can’t dwell, though, because they’re moving, they’re climbing, and John’s just a little bit high on the rush of it, the chase thrumming in his veins with just a hint of giddiness, so very not-good and yet _brilliant_ , because he’s with Sherlock and they’re both alive and the world is right, when that’s the case.

Sherlock catches his gaze as they approach the door, make to enter what can only be the base of operations: John nods. They breathe.

Sherlock kicks in the door.

The flurry of motion isn’t unexpected, though its magnitude is greater than they’d anticipated: more people, more weapons, and when Sherlock moves left and John right, they’re perfectly synched, but they’re outnumbered.

They both take out the first and the second assailants without much trouble; the third and the fourth, just a misstep here and there, they both recover it quickly. The fifth for each of them is tricky; John feels his heart stutter when Sherlock grunts, when he sees the knife pulled out from Sherlock’s thigh, but he can’t see blood gushing, so perhaps they’ve been lucky. John gets a hard blow to his bad shoulder and the pain immobilises him for too many seconds in a row, but they persevere, they manage, and there are only four of them left, only three, only two—

Sherlock takes the knife he nabbed from his attacker, still covered in his own blood, and drives it hard into the neck of his opponent, and John smiles, because yes, _yes_ , and he’s grabbing for his gun where it was thrown astray, he’s got a hand on the grip when he hears the creaking, detects it from an angle he can’t possibly counter before his grey matter makes for tasteful wall decor, and his lungs empty, they contract, because they’ve been too lucky, and Sherlock jumped for a reason.

There is only so much they can do, between them. They are only invincible to a point.

But John is a soldier, a warrior, and he draws his gun anyway; he turns, makes to at least give the impression of a fight because he’ll be damned if he goes out quietly, if he lets Sherlock be harmed while there’s anything he can do to stop it, and maybe if he takes the bullet, he can get one off before the end, he can kill this bastard, immobilise him if nothing else: make certain that Sherlock’s safe, that it wasn’t in vain.

John lines up the shot in his head before he moves to turn, to shoot, to kill: to die.

Before he can, though, John hits the floor, finds himself covered in the familiar weight of Sherlock’s frame, pinned to the ground, and he knows his shot goes wide, but that’s unimportant, that’s insignificant because he heard a gasp, and he need to know if Sherlock is safe, if he’s taken the bullet for John and John can’t feel wetness, doesn’t detect blood seeping: he turns, and Sherlock is looking at him, searching him in kind and they’re both alive, both breathing, and their enemy is still at large because John’s bullet missed its mark and yet—

A second thud rings out as something hits the floor, and John looks for the source: the second in command, as tattooed as Mrs. Hudson’s assassin, less brawny, more fierce—dead on the floor beside them, a bullet straight between his eyes.

But _John’s shot went wide._

John scrambles, looks around for anyone; a saviour, or another enemy, tries to get his bearings, and that’s when he sees it, sees him, sees the gun held limp in an unsteady grip, fallen to the man’s side as he clutches his own chest, stares down at the fingers grasping at his shirt.

John sees it: Mycroft Holmes, standing behind them, not far at all, really, looking shocked, and the gasp he’d heard before comes again, but this time it’s feeble, harsh. This time, John sees what causes it, can watch the spreading of a dark stain in Mycroft's chest below the sprawl of his open hand, holding the blood in and failing, failing, and John can estimate the location, can guess at every horrible thing that could be nicked or torn or blown to shreds beneath the surface, and it’s too dark to see whether the stain spreads steadily with the beat of a heart, it’s too dark to see much of anything, really, save for the wide eyes and the pain, and god, the _fear_ on that usually composed face, the humanness John sees, and oh, _oh_ , the _terror_ that freezes Sherlock’s own face when he sees it all, when he takes it in and realises what’s happened, who’s there, and the blood, the _blood_.

John can’t make out the details, but he can almost _taste_ the fear.

And when Mycroft crumples to the ground, not much else matters, really.

Not much else, at all.


	14. Consumed by Either Fire or Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John calls it, and settles a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder because he can’t draw him close just yet, not here, not until they know who is watching, not until they know it’s safe: John calls it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless thanks to [](http://speak-me-fair)[](http://speak-me-fair)**speak_me_fair** , and credit to T. S. Eliot for the title and the poem referenced herein.

It takes longer than John likes to get clearance to enter the room; his chest is sore from the way his heart’s been thrashing—first horror, then adrenaline, then worry, for a man on a table and a man on the run, status unknown. But he knows it’s a small thing, a minute price to pay, really, when he thinks back to his hands on Mycroft’s chest as he’d applied pressure, tried to assess the wound; called the MI5 contact Mycroft had given him as an absolute last resort and watched as Sherlock shook and stared and failed to draw in breath, started trembling; and John’s hands were covered in blood, and Mycroft’s chest was spasming, heaving at dangerous intervals but Mycroft’s heart was still moving, still pumping beneath John’s touch and he needed  more time, more hands, because Sherlock looked ready to break, on the verge of hyperventilation, and John could not possibly tend to them both.

 _Run_ , John had told Sherlock, a quick brush of knuckles against his cheek, trying to bring him back, to root him in something real, and Sherlock’s eyes had fixed upon him, glassy and terrified, and John would have winced at the way the smudge of blood from his thumb stood out against the white of that skin in the dark: he would have, but there were footsteps coming, and Sherlock needed to be hidden, needed to be kept safe.

Sherlock, though; Sherlock didn’t so much as flinch, staring between John and Mycroft, his lips parted and moving but making no sense, no sound. John had clenched his teeth and grasped Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him close and hissing, desperate: _They can’t find you. Run. I will find you. And I will protect him._ He pushed Sherlock, rough, and his own heart had twisted harsh as the man tumbled and sprawled on the ground, limbs tangled, expression flooded with confusion, with hurt.

 _Trust me, Sherlock,_ John had pleaded, and the sound of voices approaching had broken the stasis: Sherlock had scrambled to his feet, graceless, and run.

John had breathed out slow, focusing on the heartbeat under his red-wet hands, and praying, because it had worked before:

_Please, God, let him live._

John blinks, taking in the room as the guard at the door lets him pass: quiet, which makes the beeping, the hissing of the ventilator all the more overwhelming, but for all the apprehension that fills him, all the things he cannot know just by sight, he finds himself nearly lightheaded when he takes in the agent stationed at Mycroft’s bedside, sitting suit-clad and ramrod straight on watch: close-cropped auburn hair, the very same shade as the man lying prone before him, pinned beneath the watcher’s gold-brown eyes, and the cheeks are fuller, the nose just a little more blunt, but John’s adopted a skill for this charade, by now.

His heart, his lungs, his whole being sighs in relief when he sees _Sherlock_ at his brother’s bedside: eyes red-rimmed and unblinking, but safe.

Safe.

John wants nothing more than to gather him close, his hands aching to touch, but it isn’t safe: he goes instead for the base of Mycroft’s bed and grabs for the patient chart.

“Ventricular laceration,” John reads aloud as he skims the notes. “Pulsating haemorrhage at the apex, broke through the rib, not surprising.” He glances at Mycroft—pale against the sheets—and then focuses instead on the numbers, the readings on the various monitors gathered nearby, knowing that appearances are deceiving, subjective, facts are clearer, more certain: cardiac output, ECG pattern both within normal parameters—he thinks about a patient without a name, a soldier in from battle, and John would have absolute faith in the recovery of such a soul, he probably wouldn’t worry much at all.

He tells this to the tight knot of fear at the base of his throat, pulsing hard and making swallowing a trial, before he says it out loud, before he offers comfort to the straight line of Sherlock’s spine, to the shivering of his knuckles where his hand rests on the bed, barely touching Mycroft's hand where it’s settled, limp.

But warm.

“They fixed it,” John says it, because it needs saying—Sherlock needs it to be said, needs to hear it in a voice he trusts because his face is ashen, his lower lip is trembling, and he is staring at nothing, fingers twitching in the linens bunched near Mycroft’s thigh. 

“He didn’t even require bypass,” John adds, genuinely optimistic as he reads further through the chat. Mattress sutures, TachoComb—sound work, from the looks of it, and a damn sight better than they managed in the field, than they managed in those they were able to fix and save and send home with eyes open, instead of in bags.

“He’s going to be okay,” John calls it, and settles a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder because he can’t draw him close just yet, not here, not until they know who is watching, not until they know it’s safe: John calls it, because he believes it.

Because they both need to hear it said.

____________________________

John knows, from far too much experience, that when faced with the unknown, the uncertain, hours stretch like days.

When the twelfth hour passes into the thirteenth, however; when they’re closer to days than to hours, if only just, something sour starts to build in his stomach, his chest.

“His respiratory function looks fantastic,” John notes idly, trying to fill the silence because it’s long past stifling. “Well, given the givens,” he nods, because all the readings have improved, if only slightly; all promising, all encouraging, and if not for the way Mycroft’s eyes remain resolutely closed, there would be nothing to keep John from genuine pleasure at the progress. “They’ll extubate him soon, I suspect.”

“Why isn’t he awake?” Sherlock whispers; his hair is longer, now: darker, a new disguise, because his brother warrants a sentry on Sherlock’s own instruction, but suspicions would be raised if the same man stood watch without end, John had reminded him, forced him into coherence, into action for as long as it took to transform himself and settle once more in his chair.

John glances at the clock, breathes out slow before he stirs the coffee he grabbed from a machine down the hall. He takes a sip, and winces: wretched. Too sweet.

Too false.

“Look at him,” John finally tells Sherlock, and positions himself so that no angle or window or hidden surveillance in any crevice could conceivably catch the way he grabs Sherlock’s hand, the way Sherlock folds his fingers into John’s palm, makes himself small and lets John hold him fully as he shakes from the wrist outward, as John strokes the curve of flesh, of bone. 

“Really _look_ at him,” John urges, soft, and he waits as Sherlock’s eyes focus, as he takes in and processes where his eyes had been passive, dead for so many hours in between.

“He’s alive, Sherlock,” John exhales, reminds him as he squeezes around Sherlock’s hand, as Sherlock’s fingers stretch and lace with John’s; squeeze back. 

“He’s alive, and he’ll wake soon,” John tells him, because the alternative doesn’t bare thinking, let alone saying.

Not just yet.

____________________________

There’s a cache of doctors gathered outside Mycroft’s door when John arrives—a few kind words and an honest smile had convinced a floor nurse with access to a break room to let him brew a proper cuppa, and by god, he’s going to make certain Sherlock _drinks_ it, and John hears most of their conversation, results of blood workups and EEGs all largely summing up to what John’s already surmised: Mycroft should have woken by now, and there’s no clinical explanation yet for why he hasn’t.

John’s seen it before; he knows it’s a toss-up, a waiting game. The longer it lasts...

John steels himself, and pushed through the door.

“It’s a coma,” Sherlock spits out as soon as the latch clicks behind John. His hands are folded around his brother’s—it’s a gamble, a slipping in the cover, and the doctors don’t know, likely wouldn’t say anything of consequence, but John still feels his pulse quicken at the what-ifs running through his mind, all the people who could come and take everything, _everything_ just by entering this single room and doing their worst.

“I would appreciate if you people simply called it what it was,” Sherlock bites out as John walks closer, and he jumps when John rests a hand on the small of his back—spins, and meets John’s eyes. He hadn’t recognised his partner’s gait, the presence of him, and there’s guilt, remorse for that in his eyes that overpowers the harsh words, the way he’s broken, worn to the bone: the way that he has nothing to give, not now.

John _aches_ for him, with him. It was never supposed to be like this.

“It’s just as likely a form of dissociative stupor, honestly,” John tells Sherlock, softly. “He was under a great deal of stress before all this. Wasn’t sleeping, or eating, I suspect.” John rubs up and down Sherlock’s spine, kneads along his shoulder blades and Sherlock shivers, moans, and John’s not convinced the sound is borne solely from his touch, not really. “The body does a great number of things we can’t quite explain when its under duress,” John breathes out, and takes a chance of his own in pressing his lips close to Sherlock’s ear, kissing the line of his jaw in a moment of weakness: “The mind, though,” he murmurs, regretfully; marvelling, because the minds of _these_ men—they’ll never rest within the realm of comprehension: “that’s an even bigger mystery.”

“You know that he taught me how to give it order,” Sherlock whispers, and John can feel the way he breathes heavy, rapid; the way he struggles for the air around them, for the words, and John thinks of the Winter Palace, and wonders, not for the first time, what Sherlock’s mind resembles, now, where things are kept, what a heart inside a head might look like, might become.

“He taught me to hold a bow, though he didn’t play,” Sherlock says, and his voice is thin, weary as he remembers, as his lips quirk upwards and his fingers twitch, and John continues to rub is shoulders even as they heave with his lungs as he sighs, breathes back in sharp.

“Taught me to sail, though we had no ship,” and John can picture it: two brothers, one who wanted only to be a pirate, and one who, just maybe, wanted only to see his brother smile wide and breathe free—to be _young_.

“He spoke Latin to me, before I could understand it, because the mystery was the most wonderful distraction,” Sherlock whispers, half to John, and perhaps half to the drifting consciousness somewhere below their notice, to Mycroft’s soul just out of reach.

“He found me, when I ran, when they were,” Sherlock’s voice breaks, and John’s hands on his still, snake around to his chest and draw him back against him, and John swallows hard as he feels the harsh pumping of Sherlock’s pulse through his shirt, his jacket: frantic and fearful and fraying at the ends. 

“I was so,” he shakes his head and covers John’s hand on his chest with his own. “He searched for hours, the coldest day of the winter that year,” and Sherlock squeezes John’s hand, flattens it tight against him and secures his fingers inside his grip, safe: “but he didn’t stop until he found me.”

“He’ll pull out of this, Sherlock,” John exhales against his temple, kissing the pulse there with feeling. “There’s nothing wrong with him medically, there’s nothing to fix.” John runs the bridge of his nose along the line of Sherlock’s skull and tells him, wills himself to believe it so that Sherlock will too: “It’s not time to worry yet.”

Sherlock is quiet for too long, his heart still pounding, and John knows he’s failed them both.

“He didn’t stop until he found me,” Sherlock breathes out, barely audible, and John is struck by how tired he sounds, how deep the shadows under Sherlock’s eyes are drawn: too dark for the time that’s passed, for Sherlock of all people.

“He didn’t then,” John reminds Sherlock. “He won’t now,” and that, John _does_ believe, and he strokes Sherlock’s head, his hair—his own, the close-cut auburn again—draws patterns down his arms, his back, all the while pillowing Sherlock’s head against his chest, soothing as best he can until Sherlock goes limp against him, sleep in his chair with John keeping him warm.

John stares at the cup of tea he’d set on the table near Mycroft’s head, and frowns. He’ll stand, he’ll stay as long as Sherlock sleeps, but as soon as he wakes again, John vows to force _some_ liquid into the body he holds close.

John sighs, and lets himself settle back on his heels, keeping Sherlock propped as best he can; lets himself adjust to the quiet, to the deep breaths that Sherlock takes, the softer ones that Mycroft is breathing on his own, now, slight but steady, and John feels his own chest tighten as he considers the mighty man before him, larger than life even as John’s seen him so human these past months, so frightened and fallible; he considers a body ailing, a mind distended, a will pushed far and taken off course and it hurts to look at.

It hurts.

“Your brother loves you just as much as you love him,” John tells Mycroft, the still frame of him beneath those sterile sheets. He watches the ECG display, notes his vitals: strong, and Mycroft is strong, and John tells himself this is still within the realm of normality, still far removed from the point of panic. He repeats in his own head all the things he’s been reminding Sherlock all day, and yet it rings even hollower, now, settles even more uneven and makes his stomach roil, his throat clench. 

“Your brother loves you, and when you wake you’re both going to goddamned _say_ it,” John whispers, demands it with passion because there’s been too much aching, too much torn at the seams to leave even the most well-known of truths unsaid.

“And fuck it all, Mycroft Holmes,” John exhales, a little unsteady; “you’re _my_ brother as close as any blood now, too” and it’s true, it’s true and he hadn’t expected it, but he wouldn’t deny it for anything. “So you’d best wake up, and soon,” John lets a hand fall on Sherlock’s shoulder, gentle, and Sherlock groans, swallows what might just be a sob in his sleep; leans into John’s touch as he strokes along the bared skin where his shirt sits askew. 

“You need to wake up,” John tells Mycroft, as he bends to press his lips against the crown of Sherlock’s head; “else you might break something in both of us we can’t afford to lose.”

____________________________

 

“He was everything I wanted to be, you know. For the longest time,” Sherlock speaks after another stretch of silence; John snaps back to attention from his half-sway into sleep. He hasn’t looked at the clock in a very long time. He doesn’t want to know how many minutes, how many hours have passed.

John doesn’t look at the clock.

“I adored him,” Sherlock speaks softly. “I admired him. I emulated him for a very long time. I,” Sherlock’s momentum stops short, and his breath wavers on the inhale, and John reaches out before he can stop himself, places a hand on Sherlock’s arm that’s covered immediately, grasped like the world is ending.

“Most people think things changed when he left for university,” Sherlock adds, telling a story without beginnings and maybe too many pauses masquerading as ends. “He thinks that, I suspect.”

“But he came home often,” Sherlock counters, and John says nothing, just presses his fingertips into Sherlock’s biceps, because Sherlock is arguing a point to someone, something beyond John, hoping for an answer John can never give him, and that stings in John’s blood. 

That hurts.

“He came to see me. He shouldn’t have,” Sherlock shakes his head, almost rueful as he reaches with his free hand for Mycroft's hand, lilts across the line of his knuckles, around the IV. “It was an inconvenience, but I relished his attention, his praise.”

“It was when the government took an interest,” Sherlock spits out, his resentment palpable even now. “Everything changed.”

“He didn’t come home,” Sherlock whispers, lost in memories John can’t see, but can imagine clearly enough: empty spaces, and closed doors, and a hope that shrivels with time, that would have done better dying in the beginning than languishing on without end.

“When he saw me, his eyes were always,” Sherlock shudders, and John feels the individual tremors wrack beneath his touch: “blank,” Sherlock whispers, his voice choked behind the windpipe, the sounds barely making it past his throat. “He only ever judged me,” and John laments that time, that hardship; he slides his hand to Sherlock’s ribs, the flank of him and moulds against John’s sternum, exhales into Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock tilts his head back against John’s chest.

“Without him, without his,” Sherlock swallows, and John can see the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple, the jut of his pulse at an awkward angle as he sighs.

“University was dull. He called me weak, short sighted, selfish. Perhaps I was,” Sherlock concedes, his tone sad, only sad. “I found other distractions,” Sherlock speaks in vagaries, but he rubs the underside of his forearm against his thigh, subconsciously. “He called me pathetic, an embarrassment.”

“It hurt,” Sherlock breathes out like it’s poison, like it pains him to say that there was pain, and of course it does. Of course.

“I was hurt,” Sherlock says it again, and it sounds like scratching an open wound; “and so I did what any animal would do when it’s cornered, and scared, and losing. I lashed back.”

John says nothing, but he strokes the line of Sherlock’s clavicle, slow and steady, back and forth until he wants to speak again. If he wants to speak again.

“I remember, coming awake  after an overdose,” Sherlock picks back up, after a time, voice soft. “It was the worst, the closest call.” John doesn’t like to hear about these things, doesn’t like to imagine Sherlock close to death just as Sherlock moved from fascination to revulsion when John recalled the story behind his scar, the way he’d bled on the sand and whispered to the god he doubted as everything went dark.

“I don’t know if it was real, or the high,” Sherlock whispers, “but I have memories of what it felt like, my own heart going still in my chest.”

John breathes in sharp, lets his hand linger at the juncture between those collarbones, counts the pulse there for a moment because it makes it just a bit more bearable, to hear this, to dispel the what-ifs, the worlds in which Sherlock never made it to this moment, never met John and never grew to call him home, to be called home in return.

“They told me later, that he was the one who found me,” Sherlock murmurs, and reaches up to laces John’s fingers with his own. “But when I woke, he was watching me,” and John feels through Sherlock’s touch, through his hands near the base of his throat the way his breathing hitches, his throat clenches before he continues.

“I’d never seen a man look so haggard, so worn, so stricken. I couldn’t understand it, I still don’t know if I do, how someone could be so affected when they’d long stopped caring, stopped believing in...” 

Sherlock shakes his head, and John twists their hands away from Sherlock’s chest and raises them so that he can press a kiss to the centre of Sherlock’s wrist.

“But there he was, the first thing I saw, John,” Sherlock’s voice is barely present, barely tangible as he teeters between the present and the past. “Aged by decades, eyes not blank, so much as emptied, robbed—”

Sherlock chokes, and John bends, moves around to Sherlock’s side and cups his cheek, presses his mouth against Sherlock’s and stays there, asking nothing, only offering, and Sherlock breathes through him, steading against him: close.

“He was broken,” Sherlock speaks against John’s lips, then lower, against his chin. “My brother, who was indestructible, who could bring a nation to its knees if he wished it so.” 

“He was broken,” Sherlock nearly sobs, nearly cracks in ways he can’t afford to, in ways John doesn’t know if he can fill just now, just here; “and I was the one who broke him.”

John doesn’t know if he can stop the cracking, and so he gathers Sherlock close, lifts him from his seat and wraps him in his arms, because damn the watchers, and the risk: in this moment, John _knows_ , somewhere _deep_ , that their survival hinges on what is before them, immediate, and whether they can hold fast against it, together.

Nothing more.

So Sherlock shakes against John, trembles long and hard and without shame, and John holds him until he stills enough to speak, to stay the cracks himself if need be, but John is still there, still holding him, still smoothing the fractures as they appear, before they break too wide.

“I couldn’t look him in the eye the same way, after that,” Sherlock breathes out, and John aches for him, aches for them all.

Sherlock chances a glance at Mycroft, and John follows the line of his sight: Sherlock stares longer, more directly at the unconscious form of his brother now, from his place in John’s arms, as if he feels fortified. John hopes he feels fortified, feels safer than he does outside John’s reach.

“I didn’t see him,” Sherlock whispers, and John knows, suddenly, that the world’s about to break open, and whether they survive will depend on the next few moments, what is said, and what’s given in return.

“I pushed you,” Sherlock’s voice trembles, but he is still now, he is solid and heavy, weighed down with lead as he looks into John’s eyes and gives John his beating heart through the way they shine, the way they tug in John’s chest for their solemnity, for the jagged edges in them and the way they catch and mar.

“Above all else, John, I will always seek to remove you from harm,” Sherlock speaks, his eyes unblinking, unwavering, and John knows this. John knows this beyond a doubt, because he feels the same, they’ve vowed this too many times to question it, to wonder.

“And yet,” Sherlock breathes in deep, tries to steady himself and fails: “I meant for it to strike me,” he sighs out, wrecked; “I was meant for that bullet. Not you.” His eyes drift again to the still form of his brother. “And not him.”

“I did this,” Sherlock laments softly. “I did this to both of you. I resented him and kept a distance, and in the end he fell,” Sherlock turns back to John, his eyes dripping sorrow before any tears even fall. “I loved you with more than I could ever be, because you are infinite,” he exhales, bereft; “and you will, I will—”

“Look at me.” John stops him, gathers all the authority he claims, all the love he feels and hopes it can do something, can help _something_.

“I don’t think that I would still be breathing if it wasn’t for you,” John tells Sherlock once he meets John’s eyes. “And Mycroft,” John shakes his head slowly, “he’s been worried sick for you.”

Sherlock winces, turns away, but John catches him, guides his face back to John’s and John kisses him, soft and innocent, a balm more than anything else.

“I told you,” John breathes against him, “that the more you care for someone, the more it hurts, remember?”

Sherlock says nothing, but doesn’t pull away.

“He came all this way, Sherlock, doesn’t that tell you anything?” John pushes, edges just a little further, tries to nudge his partner into something less than despair. “You know how he detests legwork.”

Sherlock doesn’t laugh, and John knew that he wouldn’t, but he looks up, holds more of his own weight instead of leaning on John, and John will take that much, he will take that much and be grateful.

“He promised,” Sherlock mutters, “he promised we would all of us survive this.” Sherlock turns back to Mycroft and speaks to him, and John almost hopes he can hear it: “You promised, you bastard,” and if Sherlock shakes a bit as he hisses it through the clench of his teeth, well. John’s still close. John’s still ready to hold.

“He needs you, Sherlock,” John tells him, places a hand against his back and stands beside him, watching Mycroft as he breathes: calm, just like sleep. “He came here to save our hides because he needs you. Believe in him,” John leans up to kiss the line of Sherlock’s jaw. “It would be pointless to ask you not to worry for him,” John murmurs; “but you’ve got to believe in him just as strongly, just as much.”

They stand there, and John does his best to follow his own instruction, to apply his own advice.

It’s hard, but he tries.

____________________________

_Either you had no purpose, or the purpose is beyond the end you figured..._

Perhaps, he thinks. He’s always been torn between feeling filled with, driven by purpose, and being utterly adrift in this world. Both at once, he thinks; he sometimes feels both at once.

Putting together his team, trusting too many people with too much information based solely on the uneasiness in his stomach and the pull in his chest that told him to go, to run, to put himself in front of whatever sought to bring those closest to him harm—that had absolutely been both things at once.

_There are other places which also are the world's end..._

Undoubtedly. Wars are brewing. He was meant to fly to Syria again that morning; he sent a proxy. He didn’t think twice.

_Who then devised the torment? Love._

And it is a torment, that much is true, that much has always been true, and caring is no advantage, save that it is the line and letter of Mycroft’s every breath: the way he’s cared for his family, the way he’s failed them, the way he tries to make amends and manages to be wrong, so very _wrong_ at every turn.

_Love is the unfamiliar Name behind the hands that wove the intolerable shirt of flame which human power cannot remove._

But for all his diatribes to the contrary, would he wish it? Would he ever want to sit with his mother and not sink a bit into the way she embraces him, holds him close as if he is precious? Even now? Would he want to stare at his father’s grave and feel nothing, even if all he feels now is fury, and guilt, and raw pain even after so much time? Would he want to sit calmly when he’d sent John Watson into the jaws of hell to save a brilliant fool who’d burned enough to know that Name, who’d called it and claimed it beyond all reason, beyond all sensible measure of feeling and need?

Would he ever want to see his brother and experience anything less than the swell of affection and the mountainous tide of worry that follows Mycroft like a shadow because of Sherlock, because of all the man is and all he might be?  
      
 _We only live, only suspire..._

And it’s another truth, because it burns, it’s only beginning to burn, and yet Mycroft suspects it’s been burning all this time, the rift in his chest and the trembling of his lungs as they breathe in, rush out, and he is alive, barely and fully and undeniably so, and it’s conflagration, it’s incineration, it’s beautiful heat and oh, he’s close to the words and the world, he knows he is, he _knows_. 

_Consumed by either fire or fire._  
____________________________

“And that is where we start,” Sherlock murmurs, tracing the outlines of Mycroft’s hand, flat and still on the sheets. John’s been asleep for some time, now, and the quiet had never been so oppressive, has never cut him quite like this.

“We die with the dying,” he breathes out, trying to divorce himself from the words themselves and what they mean, focusing instead upon the context, remembering the poem and the way Mycroft had left the books scattered throughout their home, aiming toward instruction, or so Sherlock had believed: seeking connection, perhaps, and in the end, they’d found a fleeting moment of common ground, after all, before it had all gone to hell. 

“See, they depart, and we go with them,” and perhaps that’s what Sherlock had been yearning for, then, and maybe after too: an invitation, a hand extended—not permission, but an affirmation or sorts: _You are worthy, your talents are sufficient, you will be useful; come along_ , and the lack of it, he thinks, may have seared more than anything else in the world.

“We are born with the dead,” Sherlock whispers as he stares at the lines at Mycroft’s knuckles, stretched smooth. “See, they return, and bring us with them.” 

And he looks up, then, takes in his brother’s features, the rise and fall of his chest and the soft splay of his lashes against pale cheeks, almost peaceful, almost calm.

“See?” Sherlock coaxes, almost pleads as he butts the tips of his fingers against Mycroft’s, hesitant, just shy of desperate. “They _return_.”

Mycroft breathes. Sherlock wishes wholly that he could believe, somehow, that it was a response of sorts, a cosmic affirmation that life persists and hope remains within it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, because he is. Because he can’t. “I am so sorry.”

“Please,” he begs, lowers himself from the torso to lie next alongside Mycroft’s leg, his head near Mycroft’s hand. “ _Please_.”

____________________________

He hears the voice, the pleading, and in the end, when all is said and done, he cannot deny his brother.

He fights, he climbs.

He surfaces.

His mouth is filled with field cotton; his tongue is swollen, his throat lined with sand.

“P'tit frère,” he rasps, and he feels movement at his side, the tickle of touch against his fingertips before his eyes see fit to unstick at the lashes, before his pupils contract accordingly and it only feels wrong to see, doesn’t hurt so dreadfully.

Sherlock’s eyes are the wrong colour, his hair is the wrong shade and length, but the shape of his open mouth, the depth of his gaze as he stares at Mycroft, the pattern of his breathing: Mycroft knows him like a thumbprint, really. 

“My,” Sherlock struggles, his voice lost in uncertainties, mired in a hope that Mycroft prays he’s not imagining as Sherlock stumbles, gasps, gapes and his chest heaves for air. “You’re...”

And Sherlock can’t seem to speak, which is rare in itself; Sherlock keeps looking at the space next to Mycroft’s head, and Mycroft himself can’t quite be bothered to discern whether it’s wishful thinking or something more true. He only knows that he is seeing his brother, alive and breathing for the first time in far too long, and he wants to know it in his bones, wants to hold him and pretend they are young again, and the world is smaller, safer.

“I won’t break,” Mycroft exhales, and it hurts, yes, but he doesn’t mind it. Other things have hurt much worse. “Come,” and he shifts, winces at the pull but gestures for Sherlock to fold in against him, to rest upon the mattress and allow Mycroft to reinhabit a time when he could do something, could be something that would save his brother from the heartaches that spurned from without, that railed from within.

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, even if his eyes keep drifting to the space above Mycroft’s ear; “Your chest—”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft tells him, and maybe it’s a silly whim, but Mycroft feels oddly invincible in that moment, strangely confident in the rightness of the universe, and Sherlock looks different, looks like a child and Mycroft feels fit to a task he can’t name, just then—feels as if an opportunity is being offered on a plane he cannot know, that might damn him if he refuses it, turns his back on a chance he’s stumbled upon, almost lost before it  was ever found.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock warns, but Mycroft won’t have it, can’t heed it.

“Please, brother,” he pleads without thinking, and winces at the way it sounds, so ruined, and yet maybe he is that: ruined, because he has placed himself here, he has crafted and tended this space in which he feared and cared for his brother in equal measures, all-consuming, and was unable to admit to either for the threat of losing himself to the depth of it, the wellsprings of familial bonds. 

“I need to,” his voice breaks, and he thinks that’s fortunate, because the words he requires, he doesn’t think he’d quite stand. 

“I need this,” is what he settles on, and it’s just as much of a truth as anything: he needs something close, he needs to know his brother is safe, and he needs to remember an easier time, a better day when Sherlock would come to him without a second thought, would curl against him and trust that Mycroft could fix the universe and ease his wounds without question, without fail.

And if Sherlock does: if he lowers the bar that separates them on the side of the hospital bed and lines his own chest against Mycroft’s side so that his head tips onto Mycroft’s shoulder—too tentative, so careful not to get too close, not to cause any harm: if Sherlock tucks into Mycroft and is warm and so very far from lost; if this is closer than they’ve been in far too long, if this is trust that Mycroft hasn’t know in eons and if it sears from his veins, no mere shirt of flame but a body built from it, carved in it and wreathed with, then Mycroft will only spend a handful of breaths wondering if it’s real, wondering if he’s awake or still drifting.

And if Sherlock begins to shake against him—if Mycroft welcomes the return of sensation and yet feels his own eyes sting when the thin hospital gown at his shoulder grows wet, thinner still with the tears as Sherlock trembles, then Mycroft knows what to do, remembers what to say, because they have Eliot, and they are blood, and stars above, but he loves his little brother.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” he speaks it, wills it, repeats the mantra over and over until Sherlock’s breathing has evened, until his own cheeks are dry again.

“You’ve been losing weight,” Sherlock murmurs, voice thick, and Mycroft smiles, presses his cheek to the top of Sherlock’s head.

“There have been a number of things on my mind, as it happens,” Mycroft confesses, “regular meals have found themselves outside the scope of my attention,” and it’s strange, suddenly, because his chest’s been torn and cut and stitched, and yet it feels lighter, warmer, less of a burden than it did as he’d run up those stairs, gun in hand, his lungs verging on collapse as his backup lagged—had to, given where he was going and who he sought. 

Sherlock huffs, unmoved. “See to it that you take better care of yourself, moving forward,” he commands, and buries himself deeper into the crook of Mycroft’s neck.

And yes, despite the blood and the pain, it’s better now. It doesn’t feel as if anything’s about to cave in any longer, no; if he’s at risk of anything, he thinks something may burst for the fullness, for the slow-emerging buds of relief, at least—of reconciliation, if he’s lucky, if the world wants to deal in the miraculous for just a little longer.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock begins, and Mycroft’s still acclimating himself to the presence of him, to that voice and the way it sounds, close again, but more than that; the way it sounds without such tension, without such anger steeped in it, without all the things unsaid reining it in, and if that jaw works tirelessly without making any progress, if words stop before they start in leaving Sherlock’s throat, Mycroft barely notices, because Sherlock is here, Sherlock is _here_ , and the fight can hold steady for this moment, this singular space in time.

“Shh,” Mycroft stays him, asks him leave. “Let me,” and Mycroft’s not even sure what he’s asking, really, only knows that he needs to speak this first, needs to confess his sins before he can hear another word.

“I’ve been,” he starts, his mouth dry once more. “Preoccupied,” he pauses; “irrational,” and he thinks of that last day at the manor, thinking of Sherlock’s face and his reddened eyes, so like this moment, and Mycroft has learned nothing, has changed nothing up to this moment, he has been a coward; he will fix this. He will show fortitude.

He will mend this wound, deeper than the line in his chest.

“Never again,” Sherlock interrupts, and his hand has moved close to the incision, hovering without touching but Mycroft can feel the heat; he shakes his head, because oh, anything _but_.

“As often as I must,” Mycroft counters, not a promise: a fact. “Always. Without question.”

Sherlock shakes his head against Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft can’t tell if there’s more heat, more moisture. He can’t tell. 

“You can’t,” Sherlock exhales, and there’s the fire again, the flame against his skin as Sherlock chokes it, tears it out with blood and iron from his chest, his throat, his lungs. “You—”

“I wasn’t strong enough,” Mycroft interjects, and it’s as much an explanation as anything, and yet: “Caring is not an advantage.” He sneers a bit, thinks of the truth in it, and all of the loss and wills the contradiction and everything it entails to bleed into his words. 

“I was,” he begins, but of all the myriad ways he could finish that sentence, none of them seem adequate.

“Do you understand?” he asks finally, and he cannot, he _will not_ shift beneath Sherlock’s gaze, his penetrating stare, seeing everything as they do, between them, as they do with the world and all the trivialities, if only some of the necessities: Mycroft does not shift.

Sherlock, after too many moments—though fewer than Mycroft could ever have believed before—blinks. Then nods, however slightly.

Mycroft heaves a shallow sigh, feels the pull of it in his chest and relishes the harshness of the sting.

“Forgive me,” he exhales, his eyes sliding closed for a moment, because he stood firm, and now he’s spent: he can’t see what’s coming, not just now.

He feels a hand cover his own; it doesn’t tighten, or move, just stays, warm, and the contact means more than any gesture beyond simple touch.

“If you’ll return the sentiment in kind,” Sherlock agrees, and Mycroft’s lungs deflate entirely, and he feels spent and yet filled with a strange sort of wonderment. An inexplicable joy that’s almost like hope, but it doesn’t feel foolish.

It feels grounded. It feels solid and strong.

Mycroft opens his eyes, and studies his brother for a long stretch of moments before his lips turn up in a soft grin and he reaches out, toys with the sparse strands of Sherlock’s dyed locks, trimmed too close to the head to truly curl.

“I haven’t seen your hair this short since the chewing gum incident,” and it works, just as it used to, as it did when they were children: Sherlock laughs, wet and laced with a lingering sorrow, but it’s a light sound, startled and honest and innocent, and Mycroft knows his heart is held together at the moment by modern medicine, but something is healing within him regardless, beyond such interventions: something that responds to that sound and stitches itself with newfound ease.

“Mummy was so frustrated when none of the home remedies worked,” Sherlock recalls, and Mycroft can see it clearly: their poor mother, utterly flabbergasted by her sons and their misdeeds, by their ingenuity, perhaps, more so than the glob of violet tack that had tangled in Sherlock’s unruly mane.

“She never did figure out it wasn’t chewing gum,” Mycroft doesn’t ask; observes—and Sherlock chuckles deeper now, and the stitching dissolves now, unnecessary: the wounds beginning to scab over, ready to trust their own capacity to reshape, to renew.

To try again.

“Never trusted Mrs. Stinton or her useless home remedies again, either,” Sherlock adds, his voice bright and mischievous in a way it hasn’t been in years, not in Mycroft’s presence, and dear lord, but it’s a feat.

“I’ve missed you,” Mycroft says it before he can stop himself, and he regrets it immediately, if only for the way that Sherlock quiets, stiffens; doesn’t pull away, and that’s promising, that’s a reassurance.

“I,” Sherlock begins, voice low, almost timid. “I didn’t know there was anything to miss,” he whispers; “for a very long time, I never allowed myself to recall what I was lacking.”

“John,” Mycroft prompts, deduces the obvious, almost fondly as he glances over at the sleeping doctor, the reason they have this opportunity at all, Mycroft is convinced: for that is what it is. A brush with death that might bring forth the new life he’s waited for, nearly gave up hope of finding.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, following Mycroft’s gaze as his tone lowers, and he breathes out, almost reverend: “Yes. John.”

“He has been a voice of reason I never thought I’d need,” Mycroft confesses, “and a kindness I don’t know that I’ve earned. There is so much heart in him,” Mycroft says, and it’s sentiment, such _sentiment_ and yet they are better, stronger for it, for the man who brought it, for the worlds it reopened in them, the wounds it tore afresh and taught to heal better, bolder in the face of such devotion, such love. “It is difficult, not to find one’s own drawing closer to the surface, with him near.”

Sherlock is quiet, but Mycroft can gauge the way he breathes, the way he moves, the way he shifts and almost seems to gravitate, bodily, toward the man he’s fallen for, fallen with, and given all the things he thought he lacked not merely for safe keeping, but because they fit there, they _belong_ and are _cherished_.

“I’m proud of you, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him, and he’s certain he doesn’t imagine the soft sound of something wonderful and long-suffering escape from Sherlock’s lips at the words as he draws his brother close again, holds him near as he gives him absolute truth: “I am so very proud of you.”

Sherlock swallows rapidly, then settles. “Rest, now,” he tells Mycroft, pulling away, straightening and resting a palm on Mycroft’s brow. “Rest, while I keep watch.”

“You should sleep as well,” Mycroft chides gently, taking in the pallor, the deep lines in his face steeled with resolve and sheer stubbornness before the breaking. “I don’t require a sentry, here.”

Sherlock, predictably, ignores him.

“John will wake soon,” Sherlock says. “I’ll sleep once he can keep an eye on you.”

Mycroft makes to protest, because he worries, _constantly_ , but Sherlock’s eyes are sharp, are wide and not vulnerable, exactly, but as if they’ve already been flayed half-alive and still bleed.

“You were shot,” Sherlock hisses, cuts his brother’s counterargument off at the legs. “In the _heart_ , Mycroft. I was, I would not...”

Sherlock licks his lips and draws himself up to his full height; breathes deep and holds still, firm.

“You cannot do that again,” he speaks simply, as if he can change the course of time and all that masquerades as fate with just his words, and Mycroft doesn’t dignify that demand with a response; he knows the lengths he will go to for Sherlock are near-infinite, and that isn’t a changeable thing.

He does, however, allow himself a moment to process the depth of the sentiment, there; the way Sherlock had stammered, the way his voice grew strained as he spoke the words—the care, the need, the love that Mycroft had so long feared lost entirely, far beyond retrieving.

He breathes out, a slow deflation through pursed lips, and he weighs this new reality against all other things, and he thinks, if this can end with all lives unended, and all hearts unbroken, then it will have been worthwhile: worth everything suffered, everything risked and even lost.

Mycroft looks again at his brother, who is looking back at him, eyes wide and barely shuttered, naked and teeming with feeling, and yes.

So much more than worthwhile.

“How much longer will this take, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks before he can think enough to hold it back.

“Not long,” Sherlock surprises him in answering; “not long now.”

It sounds as if he’s trying to convince them both, really, but Mycroft isn’t about to complain, not here.

Not now.

“When you are home, then,” he says firmly, “when you are safe—” 

“When we are _all_ safe,” Sherlock corrects him, an unmistakable note of certainty ringing through the words, and Mycroft nods.

“We will discuss the lengths to which we go for those dearest to us,” he finishes, and he means it. They will. “But after.”

After. After, when it’s done, and their breathing isn’t being into question. When their hearts are healed and whole.

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees, just a little too perfunctorily, Mycroft suspects. “Until then.” He comes back and splays his hand again across Mycroft's forehead, the heel of his palm easing Mycroft’s eyes closed: “Rest,” he urges, asks; “recover.”

“Return,” Mycroft asks in kind, because he isn’t foolish, he isn’t blind.

Mycroft knows that Sherlock will be gone again when next he wakes.


	15. The Rain Won't Make Any Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John says nothing, because he’s unsure what would best suit. _I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone before_ is far too trite, if entirely true. _I think I need him to breathe_ is just shy of pathetic. Mostly, what he’d like to do is convey that if Sherlock needs him—Sherlock, of all people—then what John feels for Sherlock: the untenable magnetism, the absolutely crucial necessity of his presence to John’s very will to greet the day when it all feels too wrong—if Sherlock _needs_ him, then John doesn’t know the word for how Sherlock completes his world, draws its lines and gives it colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [speakmefair](speak_me_fair.livejournal.com) deserves all the love for her brilliance; amidst the plethora of other things appearing here that I don't own, Hemingway and the Baroness Williams of Crosby are obviously not mine.

“Sit still, Mycroft, and let the man practice his craft.”

John smirks as he listens through his stethoscope to the impatient sigh Mycroft heaves as Leonore Holmes steps across the lawn toward where they’re seated, chiding her son for his half-hearted protests at John’s insistence upon monitoring Mycroft’s recovery for himself.

“You know, of course, that I have a personal physician,” Mycroft huffs, and John bites his lip in order to maintain his composure, moving the diaphragm to the left of the sternum and refocusing his attention: he can’t be blamed, though, really. 

Seeing either of the Brothers Holmes so petulant in dealing with their mother absolutely ranks as one of his favourite sources of amusement. 

That’s all it takes, though. Thinking of the _brothers_ , the one before him and the one who’s been too far for too long—to weigh down John’s mood, to tug the corners of his mouth out into straight, thin lines.

John breathes out slowly as he makes his way down the left sternal border; he lingers at the apex for a moment longer than necessary, because if he’s not mistaken, the heart he’s listening to jumps a bit; it staggers and speeds just a tad without explanation. John feels a dive in his stomach, unwarranted fear gathering at the base of his throat before he chances a glance in Leonore’s direction—those honey-coloured eyes of hers are as sharp as Sherlock’s ever managed, and they’re currently narrowed at Mycroft with not a hint of mercy held inside.

John feels his chest loosen, because yes, he thinks his pulse might jump a bit if that glare was levelled his way, too. It’s entirely normal.

Normal. Right.

John starts the simple pattern over again with the bell of his stethoscope, pressing to the right of Mycroft’s chest as Mummy tears strips off (if John had ever believed Sherlock on this score) her favourite son. 

“Mycroft Holmes, you can have a personal _army_ of physicians,” she scolds; “and they still won’t and can’t amount to having _family_ check you over, someone with a vested interest in your well being.” Out of the corner of his eye, John catches her in the act of shaking her head brusquely before she shifts her attention toward John, who simply moves the bell right again and goes about his work. 

“It’s just our luck John’s so very skilled at what he does,” she praises him with a placid smile, states it like fact, and it’s the sort of thing that John’s never taken with the kind of grace he ought to.

“Now, I wouldn’t go—”  he protests, willing away the rise of a blush from his cheeks, but he’s stopped short by a voice that rumbles around the beat he’s examining, resonating inside and out.

“She’s right,” Mycroft says, the words soft, and unexpected—and when John glances up at the man, that usually stern gaze is soft around its edges, as well. Mycroft is serious, and maybe even grateful. 

John swallows twice, hard, and listens carefully at the apex once more before he exhales, removes the earpieces and begins to fold the stethoscope into the kit he’d taken to keeping at the estate, because he was in a relationship with Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Is. _Is_ , his own heart kicks harshly in protest, in affirmation and unwavering loyalty as John pushes down the bile gathered at the base of his throat. He _is_ in a relationships with Sherlock Holmes.

So obviously, under those circumstances, he’d need to have a kit on hand.

John closes his eyes firmly, just for a moment, just so that he can stave off the rush of nostalgia, of longing and—to his shame—despair that threatens to overcome him, because the fact remains that outside of the funeral, and pub nights with Greg out of guilt,  he’d been keeping to himself—he had declined Mummy’s invitations for holidays, and he wouldn’t have come now if not for Mycroft, if not for the way his own concerns had been eating at him in Mycroft’s absence from the city, and from John’s immediate ability to monitor his condition. The fact is, however, that John’s never been here by himself, not without Sherlock by his side, and it stings suddenly in a way he hadn’t expected; it takes the breath from his lungs for a moment too long—because he’s breaking, he’s been breaking for so long, and Sherlock’s breath against his cheek in that hospital room, innocent and too chaste wasn’t enough, isn’t enough, and John’s starting to fray now, because he’s made of sturdy stock, yes, but this has gone too far, this is asking too much, this—

“The prognosis, Doctor?” Leonore prompts gently, and there is an audible crest of anxiety to her words; as John steps back to himself; as Mycroft watches while he buttons his shirt; Mycroft, who understands everything. Leonore, though, is behind him now, and he can only imagine how his silence would project to a mother, from a doctor whom she trusted to assess her eldest’s wellbeing. 

“Humming away like it’s half the age of the body it’s in, ma’am,” he responds quickly, and lets the relief and the genuine joy he feels at having listened soak into his words and form into an honest grin. He watches as the edge of concern drops from Leonore’s features, and he feels a bit wretched for having placed it there in the first place, but Mycroft’s hand steadies on his shoulder for a moment, grounding him; unexpected, perhaps more than his words had been, an affirmation of what he’d known for a while in his mind—he is valued, and trusted, and accepted among these people; he is wanted, and against all odds, he is loved in his own right as a part of this _family_ —but had yet to believe, yet to feel. 

John sighs, and he misses Sherlock like a limb, yes, but within an instant, he realises—knows—is convinced that until he’s whole again, he will have the help he needs to stand in the meantime. He will find it in Mummy’s smile, he will find it in Mycroft’s grip.

John lets his eyes close, swallows hard again; for entirely different reasons, and for all that John is miserable, and aching, and desperate, he is grateful.

Yes. He is grateful. 

He doesn’t think that will be enough.

Leonore has excused herself to start their evening meal by the time John’s tucked away his instruments, and Mycroft has straightened his clothes—just a simple cotton shirt and chinos, and it’s strange to see him out of his waistcoat, for what may well be the first time, and John feels something unfurl in him, now that he’s privy to the sight: the British Government, at ease, breathing deeply with his sleeves rolled to the elbows.

John’s brother, his friend, simply being. Unburdened, relatively speaking.

“You’re healing nicely,” John comments, because it’s true, and because he can see the pinkening scar through Mycroft’s shirt, and the closeness of this call hasn’t faded from John’s mind, yet, and John owes this man more than he knows how to express, really, because Mycroft saved their hides, yes, but he’d been keeping Sherlock’s safe for far longer.

Without Mycroft, there may not have been a Sherlock for John—to bring John back to life and kindle in him the kind of lightness, the kind of wholeness that had stirred his heart to waking, to wanting, to needing and loving and leaping, to having the chance to be caught and cradled and cherished by the most unlikely, and yet the _only_ person John could imagine adoring quite so deeply, so impossibly; without Mycroft, Sherlock may not have been there for John to meet on that fateful day at Barts. That alone places John within his debt.

“Yes,” Mycroft says, reaches for the lemonade his mother had brought out earlier as John realigns with the present: healing. Right. “Yes, I rather think so.”

“Good care will do that,” John grins, flicking his eyes indicatively toward the door Leonore had disappeared through.

“From all sides,” Mycroft adds, and his own eyes are fixed upon John, now; the weight of this, all of it, suddenly very near, very real and full.

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft murmurs, and John is flattered, John is touched by the gravity in those words, but he’s uncomfortable, they’re too heavy.

“Don’t mention it,” and he brushes it off, moves to grab for his own glass, but Mycroft is insistent; he places a hand on John’s arm to stay him, to draw his attention and make him take heed.

“John,” Mycroft says his name carefully, holds John’s gaze until all of what he’s trying to convey comes through. “ _Thank you_.”

And damn, well. If they’re going there, if Mycroft Holmes is going there, John may as well take the plunge, himself.

“I could say the very same, you know,” John tells him, voice soft. “It would have been, well,” and he swallows hard. He remembers that night, remembers being surrounded and readying himself to die; he remembers saying goodbyes in his mind with his finger on a trigger, and he shudders, because it all would have been for nothing, it all would have gone wrong, then and there.

John draws in a deep breath, steadying himself before he meets Mycroft's stare once more:

“We wouldn’t be sitting here now if you’d been anything less than your meddling self, would we?”

Mycroft’s chin dips slightly, and John feels just a bit vindicated, because the words aren’t easy, are harder still to hear, but they need saying, and he’s glad for the opportunity, the opening.

He’s glad they’ve been said, and he feels just a bit less awkward leaning in, and gripping Mycroft’s shoulder, as he tells the same truth back, in kind:

“Thank _you_ , Mycroft.”

And Mycroft, damn him; Mycroft’s lips quirk just a bit as he looks John in the eyes one more time, and the man’s a decade younger as he replies, just a tad bit rueful:

“Don’t mention it.”

____________________________

_It’s everything that John might have imagined, had he spared any thought to it: old money, goddamned bloody wings of some gothic style mansion or whatnot, servants’ quarters, though he can’t tell if they’re still used; sprawling grounds, green and colour blooming at every turn, peppered with vast expanses of sky—yes._

_The Estate of the Family Holmes is just about everything John could have expected, if he’d been spending the ride there thinking about the house itself, about the surrounding land._

_He hadn’t, of course._

_He’d been sitting ramrod-straight, to the point that his spine had started protesting twenty minutes in, only half-aware of Sherlock’s fingertips dancing around his knuckles reassuringly as he’d stared out the window, swallow around the odd twist in his pulse as he thought about how this had no right to bother him, he’d done it so many times before, he’s loveable and endearing and accomplished in his own way, and—_

_And when confronted with the prospect of meeting Leonore Holmes, the woman who gave birth to the two greatest minds in England, none of those things were really worth a damn._

_So it’s not really surprising, that after a lovely meal—chicken makhani from scratch, and it was delicious, and by rights it should have eased his nerves when he overheard Sherlock calming his mother in the kitchen, reassuring her that it wasn’t foolish to assume that just because he’d once mentioned idly that John had ordered takeaway Indian for them she should try to cook it herself for their visit, promising her that it would be delightful; it should have melted the chill in his veins to hear the kindness in his voice, and the care in hers, and yet still he’s standing alone at the picture windows that stretch from floor to ceiling as Sherlock and Mycroft bicker in the study three rooms over, his heart picking up speed when he hears the approach of heels again the flooring: short, sensible ones, but the click is undeniable._

_“Three months, and five days.”_

_John turns to the woman who’s come to stand beside him: tall, a few inches shy of Sherlock’s height, hair a darker brown than Mycroft’s, but lighter than Sherlock’s ebony, swept in an elegant comb to frame the cheekbones she leant her son just so. She stares out the window, beyond the horizon, too focused to be looking at nothing, but whatever she’s riveted by, he can’t see it._

_“That’s how long my son’s been,” she pauses, tilts her head in consideration, but her gaze doesn’t falter at the skyline; “affected, shall we say, by your presence in his life.”_

_And John does the math in his head: that’s how long he’s been paying rent on Baker Street, that’s precisely how long it’s been since his world was turned upside down by pale eyes and elegant fingers, a low baritone that rumbled through an infectious chuckle: a shrouded thread of care woven in an unfathomable bleeding heart that danced to Schoenberg under the streetlights of London._

_ Day one. _

_John swallows hard around the heart in his throat as he realises, not for the first time, that whether it was love at first sight is irrelevant, because it may have simply been the immediate recognition of something essential. Indispensable. Improbable, and yet necessary._

_“He phoned me,” Mrs. Holmes tells him, still staring out, but the shape of her eyes, even in profile, are rounder, wider: softer, and her tone is hopeful, unexpectedly happy. “He apologised for being so inconstant with his calls.” She huffs a bit, then, under her breath. “Sherlock, apologising! The apocalypse may well have been nigh.”_

_She chuckles to herself before falling silent, and John’s blood’s still rushing just a little too fast, punctuating the stillness inside his temples, in his ears._

_“One month,” she starts again, unprompted; “and,” she pauses, purses her lips as her eyes finally shift—they’re in shadow now, given the angle, but John knows they’re considering him carefully, from out of the dark. “Three days,” she decides before she stares again out toward the sky. “He’s needed you more than he could logically comprehend for one month and three days.”_

_John says nothing, because he’s unsure what would best suit. _I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone before_ is far too trite, if entirely true. _I think I need him to breathe_ is just shy of pathetic. Mostly, what he’d like to do is convey that if Sherlock needs him—Sherlock, of all people—then what John feels for Sherlock: the untenable magnetism, the absolutely crucial necessity of his presence to John’s very will to greet the day when it all feels too wrong—if Sherlock _needs_ him, then John doesn’t know the word for how Sherlock completes his world, draws its lines and gives it colour._

_“You nearly died, from what I understand,” she tags on, meets his silence as if it requires explanation, but John thinks they both know that’s not quite the case. “One can certainly imagine the emotions that might come to light, given such circumstances.”_

_John lets his eyes drift closed for just a moment, lets himself sink into that night, the bite of chlorine and the lingering phantom weight of the vest, the explosives digging against his ribs, the pressure replaced by Sherlock’s hands against his chest, pressing him against the wall as soon as the door was closed and the world kept at bay—he remembers the tang of blood on Sherlock’s lips where he’d nearly bit clean through the flesh for nerves, for fear. He remembers the texture of Sherlock’s nipples on his tastebuds, the heat of his climax first, and then John’s own between them; recalls the exact cadence of Sherlock’s heaving breaths for more moment after than mere physical exertion could account for: remembers the way his lungs had finally calmed once John pressed lips down the line of his chest, between his ribs._

_“Two weeks later,” Mrs. Holmes breaks the recollection, the swirling images behind John’s eyes. “That’s when he knew that he loved you, that love was the closest word to fit what you meant.”_

_Two weeks._

_John tries to remember, tries to pull that out, but he can’t think of a reason, there’s no benchmark highlighting that day over any other, not above the general haze of disbelief that follows John around, now, that reminds him it’s still a bit miraculous._

_Sherlock Holmes wanting him. Waking with him. Needing him._

_Loving him._

_“He agreed to tea,” is her answer to his unspoken question, her tone nostalgic. “Do you know how long it’s been since my son deigned to join his mother for tea?” She smiles at the skyline as she seems to sink into her own cache of memories. “He was flushed the entire time,” she tells him, fondly. “He could speak only of you,” and that warms something small in John’s chest that turns hot, turns to burning too quickly, thrums in him with promise and wonder and need before he can grasp where it came from, what it means. “I hadn’t seen him smile so often in a single hour since...” and then she trails off while John gathers himself, relaxes the grip of his hands, reverses the whiteness of his knuckles where they clenched against the pockets of his trousers._

_“One week exactly,” she starts again, her voice strong once again, and John knows what happened a week ago, can barely believe it in a small corner of his mind, won’t ever forget it: “A week ago today, he became convinced of the fact that you love him back just as fiercely, despite all the voices in that brilliant head of his whispering to the contrary.”_

_Yes, he did, and John’s still reeling from it._

_“I know what people say, what people think,” she tells him, a little sad, but mostly factual. “It’s not that my boys want for feeling, John, as I suspect you well know.” She smiles softly, and the sunset illuminates her from the tree line beyond. “Quite the opposite, in fact._

_“But the world taught them that to trust was only folly,” she explains, and John thinks he’s known this, that maybe he has known this all along. “So all that passion, all that heart,” she laments, just a bit; “they channel it sparingly, and guard it relentlessly.”_

_“And so, here you are,” she says softly, eyeing John in her periphery. “John Hamish Watson, the noted exception to the rule.”_

_It makes John breathe a little heavier under the weight of the impossible when it becomes improbable, when it’s transposed into perfect truth._

_He draws a careful breath before he makes to speak. “Mrs. Holmes—”_

_“I have high hopes for you, Doctor,” she interrupts him, and turns her gaze fully to him, finally. He prepares to be rendered still, to be pinned beneath the razor-edge of her eyes, but he needn’t have bothered: her eyes are sharp like her sons’, but their amber shade is warm, all-seeing and all-encompassing like Sherlock’s, and yet they open immediately, an embrace first, unblanketed with interrogation._

_John blinks, taken aback, and she smiles at him: Sherlock has her mouth, her teeth, her grin. “And I’m not the sort of woman who casts her hopes idly.”_

_She pats him on the shoulder and makes to leave him to his devices, but stops short._

_“And please, John,” she chides gently: “at the very least, call me Leonore.”_

_He smiles to himself as her footsteps retreat, but they pause once more, and he turns to look at her, gripping the door frame just outside the threshold and looking down at the ground with a softer grin, but a dearer one._

_“It would be much nicer, however, now and again,” she murmurs, oddly quiet; “if you just called me Mummy.”_

_She’s gone before he can call her anything at all, but when they leave the next morning, he thanks her warmly, and when she asks if they’ll visit before Christmas, he tells her sincerely: “Mummy, I can’t think of a single thing that would keep us away.”_

_And if Sherlock smiles brightly before he adds “Barring any cases, as well you know,” it’s nothing compared to the way his mother beams at them, and yes._

_They really do have the exact same smile._

____________________________

Leonore insists on portioning dessert, so she leaves John and Mycroft on the terrace with a bottle of Balvenie aged longer than John’s been breathing. Mycroft reaches to do the honours, but John stops him mid-grab for the glasses.

“Ah,” John tuts, raising an eyebrow. “Your medication?”

Mycroft frowns, eyeing the bottle John’s pulled away from him. “I finished the course,” he answers, a tad indignantly. “As instructed,” he adds, and if it was anyone else, John would have called the tone downright _cheeky_. “I haven’t taken anything stronger than paracetamol for a two and a half weeks, now.”

John bites his lower lip, feigning indecision. “Then I suspect we could risk,” he tips the bottle and pours carefully: “two fingers,” and Mycroft watches him carefully, eyes narrowing when John rights the bottle prematurely; “not three.”

Mycroft studies John for a moment before he picks up the playful bent in him, the way he smirks as he slides Mycroft’s glass across the table and goes to pour his own. “That seems to be a rather arbitrary distinction.”

John eyes a generous three fingers in his own glass and leans back in his chair with a smirk. “Well, there does seem to be a rather limited quantity of this very lovely scotch.”

Mycroft chuckles, and the sound is honest, almost startled out of him, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but the openness feels heady on its own: this kind of candour from this particular man. 

They drink in silence for a bit before Mycroft breaks the stasis; the soft glaze of inebriation remains, a distracting, almost pleasant buzz.

“I received a Get Well bouquet,” Mycroft tells him, apropos of nothing. “From the Baroness Williams of Crosby.”

John thinks that’s nice, but with or without the scotch, he doesn’t think he’d know the significance, the reason for sharing such information.

“The most exotic flowers,” Mycroft continues. “Spider lilies, edelweiss, tiger lilies,” he pauses, and it’s a good thing, too, because the meaning is coalescing quickly, and John needs to see Mycroft’s eyes, needs to know what he’s saying without saying it:  “Fringed orchids.”

And it hits John with unanticipated force just how long this has been going on, how far they’ve come, and how far they’ve yet to go. It strikes him, just how much he misses Sherlock, how much it’s killed him that he hasn’t heard a word from his partner since Vancouver, since that last morning in Mycroft’s hospital room. There were always too many people milling about for them to truly touch, to kiss goodbye, in the end. John knows he’s been wavering, teetering on the ledge of a chasm too deep to plumb, but he hadn’t realised how deep the cracks in his heart ran, really. Not until he hears the names of those flowers, remembers how they looked against a grave he’s had to visit, in passing, still: remembers the fear with perfect clarity, because it’s never left.

Mycroft slides his mobile across with the proper website queued up, and it’s the final piece of evidence that squeezes in John’s chest, a hand to hold the pieces of him together as the cracks deepen, widen, threaten to burrow straight through: 

“Shirley,” John whispers to himself, caught between a laugh and a sob as he thinks about the look on Sherlock’s face the one time a client had made the terrible decision to use that particular epithet. “Shirley Williams.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft nods, keeping his expression neutral—and yet his eyes speak volumes, never leaving John. “Not that I don’t think she’d wish me well on principle,” he adds, “but we never quite saw eye to eye, really.”

John hums in tacit agreement, his mind spinning too fast to process much of anything save Sherlock, save the reservoir of feeling and aching that he’d done his damnedest to keep locked tight, that had now been unleashed without warning at the mere mention of flowers and a silly nickname that didn’t suit, caught in John’s lungs, dizzying.

John barely notices when a small piece of card stock is slid across the table to him.

“There was a note on the back of the card,” Mycroft gestures, and John turns it over and sees the writing: unfamiliar, but the words:

_They’ll blossom only for a time. The rain won't make any difference._

And again, it all hits him. For a moment, he can’t breathe.

Mycroft is still watching closely, ready to intervene, to ease him if necessary; John can feel his gaze, and he’s grateful, because John still wakes at night and wonders whether Sherlock’s out there. John still has to buy Sherlock’s shampoo to remember the scent of him. John still feels empty every day, even if it’s got more bearable, even if he hides it well.

John hurts, and he doesn’t think even he understood how much until right this very moment, with a quote on a card in his hand.

“I assume that means something to you?”

It had, but that was in the time John calls _before_. Before the pool, before everything changed for all that it didn’t. The row of literature, of poetry and novels had stood out from the very first; Hemingway was on the shelves, and by the second day at 221, John had asked why. 

Sherlock had said that it was waiting for context, and so it stayed. 

Afterwards, after everything and nothing had changed, John had found Sherlock curled on the sofa, the last page held delicately between his fingers, his chest stilled while he held an inhale too long in his lungs until they couldn’t stand it, until the air rushed out heavily and blew the pages together.

Sherlock had risen to make tea—uncharacteristic enough in itself—and John chanced a look at the page the book had fallen open to, on its own.

_Why, darling, I don't live at all when I'm not with you._

Sherlock had embraced John from behind and breathed him in at the crook of his neck; stood for long minutes wrapped around him, and John’s pulse had hummed, strong and sure in that embrace, and the shape of the novel on the table burned into his retinas as he stared, blinked, stared, and breathed.

It had context, now, and thus would stay indefinitely.

In the early days, Sherlock used it, used lines from other minds that resonated in his own to express what he found inexpressible: _My life used to be full of everything. Now if you aren't with me I haven't a thing in the world,_ he’d said to John long after they’d caught their breaths, settled beside one another in their bed. _Your blood coagulates beautifully,_ he’d whispered, shaky with terror, saturated with conviction as John bled freely from the graze of a bullet in a back alley, shivering in Sherlock’s arms. _When you love you wish to do things, you wish to sacrifice,_ was the only answer John received when he asked why Sherlock let the Yard solve a solid 8 on John’s birthday. 

Soon enough, though, Sherlock led with his own words, learned to express his emotions—perhaps not with the eloquence of his thoughts, but with equal passion, and an even greater depth. And yet John doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the night—a simple case, a simple victory for justice and the rule of law—when Sherlock had stopped him outside their front door and whispered Hemingway’s words—for John knew them well—in a voice too small to be his own.

“You'll always love me won't you?” Sherlock had breathed against him, hot on John’s skin as his chest moved with quick, shallow breaths against John’s own as thunder sounded in the distance—a rumbling vehicle, or an impending storm, he didn’t know, didn’t care. “And the rain won't make any difference?”

And John, of course, had kissed him as deep as he knew, and answered both questions as best he could, because he’d never loved like that before.

John’s never loved like this, not once; knows he never will again.

It failed to rain that night, but it didn’t matter. It’s never mattered.

John breathes more easily and takes the card from Mycroft’s outstretched fingertips; an offer, a gift, a shred of dignity and a ray of hope, and maybe John is desperate. Maybe John is breaking underneath it all.

But John takes that card and grips it tightly, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost feel wetness on the breeze, the old sting in his shoulder, the pressure of a mouth against his own, the taste of that tongue, the beat of that heart through those lips.

If he breathes deep and listens hard, John can almost envision the rain. 

____________________________

He’d needed air, space, a moment, and Mycroft had understood; he’d offered to help his mother clear their dishes, which led to her firmly refusing either man’s assistance as she began gathering plates. Mycroft had declared without prelude that he thought he might rest his eyes, leaning heavily in his chair, and so John swallowed the small spike of concern— _it’s not necessarily the wound causing fatigue,_ he’d reminded himself, _and even if it is, it wouldn’t be cause for worry_ —and made his way alone to the small porch leading out to the terrace where they’d dined.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, breathing in, then out, over and again; he doesn’t know how long it takes for him to notice his hostess standing next to him, so like that first time he came here, and yet so very different.

“I know my sons,” Leonore begins softly, watching Mycroft where he sits with his scotch, head tipped back against his chair, eyes still closed: content. 

“That boy came back from god knows where with a _hole_ ripped through his _heart_ , John,” she says with a passion, a subtle tremor against the words. “And yet, I haven’t seen him so at peace since he was a child.”

John squints out, takes a good look at the gentle rise and fall of the elder Holmes’ chest, and no: John’s not sure he’s even seen Mycroft look quite so soft, so calm.

“It’s a blessing, you know, but likewise, it’s a curse,” she continues. “Because I haven’t seen Mycroft look so serene in years. Not since before they couldn’t stand one another. Not since before they stopped trusting, and the love got hidden in the process.”

And John’s heard stories, recollections over the dinners he’s spent here, holidays he’s celebrated in the company of this family, _his_ family: John knows the tales, and wonders at what might have been, what once was—how two brothers bickered and treasured and cared in the before; whether it looked like Sherlock’s face when John woke in the hospital room, childlike and confused and yet smoother, just a little less burdened. Like Mycroft’s now, turned up toward the setting sun with a quirk of his lips, arms folded gently across his chest.

“That look in him,” Mummy picks up on John’s thoughts precisely, and John’s long past being surprised. “That look is affection and fulfilment,” she tells him. “It is adoration and devotion. It is knowing underneath all the worry that your heart was in the right place, and was acknowledged for it, and that it was enough, despite everything. You gave all you had, and in the way you deemed best, and it was sufficient. You protected your own heart in protecting the one entrusted to you, held dear and close.”

Her voice falters for a moment, and John doesn’t fight the inclination to reach for her hand on the railing in front of them, to place his palm against her fingers, to hold and squeeze in support when she reaches back and takes his hand in hers.

“it is revelling in a job well done, if only for a moment,” she whispers. “That look, you understand, is all about his brother.”

And if John has learned anything, in loving Sherlock Holmes, it is when silence is the sweetest comfort.

John knows, now, how to be silent.

“Did either of them ever tell you about their father?” Leonore pats his hand, and lets go, returning to her lean against the rail. John shakes his head, once. He knows what he needs to know about Mr. Holmes, and he’s never asked for more.

“It’s a sore subject for them,” she continues. “It needn’t be, not for the reasons it still stings. Other reasons,” she adds, sadly; “but not those.”

“They each blamed themselves,” she reveals, and that’s not surprising. “And yet, Mycroft was convinced that Sherlock blamed him for Sherrinford’s death. Sherlock, on the other hand, believed that Mycroft held him responsible.”

It was complicated, John recalls Mycroft’s words to him; _after our father died._

“Mycroft rarely came home, once he started working for the Home Office, but that Christmas, he came.”

And Sherlock’s words, now, surface anew for John, as though, he were hearing them for the first time: _It was when the government took an interest. Everything changed._

“It was an argument. There’s not a single one of us who remembers what it was about,” Mummy shakes her head, and John dutifully ignores the way her eyes glisten, too bright. “For the best, most likely.”

“Sherlock stormed off. Typical,” and yes, John’s spent his share of evenings worried sick about the man when he leaves, despite knowing that Sherlock needs the quiet, the space, the city to sort his thoughts, his emotions. Typical, indeed. 

“I worried before Mycroft did, of course, but that was likely because he was still so angry,” Leonore’s eyes study the backs of her hands as John listens. “After he’d settled, though, he realised Sherlock had been gone far too long.” Her breath draws thin with the last of her words, and her next breath is too large, too shallow: rings like a gasp. “And it had begun to storm. So he went out after Sherlock, two hours later, under the full wrath of Mother Nature,” she shakes her head again, bites her lip, and John watches carefully the rise and fall of her shoulders as she tries to maintain her composure, feeling unsettled, because it’s her story to tell, absolutely, but John’s not sure it’s his for the listening, all things told.

“Within the hour following, I’d started to panic,” and here, the pitch of her voice shifts, grows deep and weary with guilt. “Sherrinford had grown anxious, as well, so I bundled him up and he went to fetch our boys.” When the tear escapes her eye, now, John takes her hand in his own once more, threads his fingers between hers and invites her to take what stability she needs.

Her breaths are heavy, frantic, but her grip is tight as she takes his hand, grounds herself before she finishes.

“As it happened, Mycroft did find Sherlock,” she speaks, voice low, nearly inaudible. “He found Sherlock bent over his father’s mangled body,” and her words hitch with her breath, and John can feel the creaking of his bones as she squeezes his fingers tighter than he’d prepared for, tighter than he thought she could.

“It was dark, and the roads were flooded,” she exhales, the words barely there. “Sherlock had sprained an ankle, sliding against the hills. He’d tried to return home, but it was too painful, slowed him desperately.” Leonore swallows, and John makes to interrupt her, to spare you the finishing: it’s enough, he understands, she doesn’t need to continue, but she does, picks back up before he can speak.

“The driver couldn’t have stopped, likely didn’t know what he hit, couldn’t see,” Leonore nods, as if trying to convince herself of these things still, after all this time. “The car was long gone by the time Sherlock came upon his father’s ravaged corpse,” she whispers. “And Sherlock was beyond consolation, by the time Mycroft came upon them both.”

“And so Sherlock blamed himself, because if he hadn’t fled his brother’s ire, no one would have followed him,” she concludes, her voice watery, yet firm again. She sounds like herself once more, and it breaks John’s heart. “And Mycroft blamed himself, for being unreasonable, for driving Sherlock away. For being too slow, too careless, for letting Sherlock come to the harm that delayed him, and that sent Sherrinford out after them.”

She heaves a ragged sigh and looks up again, meets John with a sort of devastated smile that catches in John’s chest.

“And I blamed myself, because I should have gone with my husband, but he told me to wait, to stay here,” she confesses, and John doesn’t know how to absolve her of a sin uncommitted when it weighs so heavily on her soul. “What if they came back in the meantime, he’d said. What if they’d come back to an empty house...”

She trails off, and blinks far too many times before she looks at John again, and this time, John feels it: the weight of her gaze, more like her sons’ than the warmth he’d come to expect from those eyes—piercing. 

All-seeing. All-knowing.

John musters his resolve, and prays she cannot see quite like her sons.

“I buried my husband,” she tells him, raw and bled just a bit too dry. “I buried a full chamber of my heart with the man I loved,” she breathes out slowly, as if the lack still pulls with every beat, still drains her dry for the hole in her, and John knows that feeling, in a way.

John fears that feeling, like nothing else.

“Do you remember, John, when I told you I held high hopes for you in this family?”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer.

“I could never have imagined,” she starts, and her eyes are soft now, open and inviting and John loves this woman, loves her because she is Sherlock’s mother but loves her because he thinks she loves him, too, like a son, perhaps; maybe too much like a saviour. “You’ve restored one of my sons already, and now, you seem to have had a hand in bringing the other back to himself, as well,” her eyes trail again to Mycroft, who is no longer illuminated by the sun now that dusk has settled, but who sits still, his warm breath misting in the cool. 

“You’ve helped heal wounds that I’d long feared irreparable,” she turns back to him, and now the gazes meld: the mother, the softness, the care with that insatiable curiosity, that vision around and through. 

“And your love for Sherlock is something I could never have dreamt that he would find,” she tells him, and he’s heard this from her before, in passing, but he suspects he’ll never again hear it so honest, so frank and so full. “Not because of who he is, or how he is, but because that kind of love is rare for even the most open of hearts, John,” she marvels for a moment, and John marvels in those seconds, too. “It is precious, and you offered it to him, and by god, in doing so you unearthed the buried pieces, you enabled him to offer the same in return.”

“You love him,” she declares that truth with such certainty that it shakes John beneath his feet, in the marrow his bones, rattles in the septum and realigns his centre of gravity because it’s unquestionable. It’s a law of physics. It’s gravity and the will of God, maybe. 

John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. And that, John thinks—as his heart races for the knowledge of it, unerring and unbreakable—may be the only thing John _knows_ to be true.

“And I’ve known love, John,” Mummy whispers, leans into him, considers him carefully, eye to eye. “I’ve seen love, and I’ve had love, and I’ve lost love, and I know what it feels like, what it looks like.” She pauses, tilts her head to watch him closely, and John feels flayed open, and knows his secrets are on display—prays they’re not read for what they are, but he knows it’s a hollow plea.

“I know what it is to break when it’s gone.”

And John knows that, John absolutely knows that because he’s feared too many times, he’s bargained with the holy too many times, he’s felt his chest shrink and his heart tremble and his lungs go cold now too often—John knows that, he is _sure_ that he _knows_ at least a _fraction_ of that—

“And you are fractured, John Watson,” Mummy tells him, knows him in that instant, and John’s mind stops as she meets his eyes and sees him so fully, he knows he cannot hide. “You are fractured beyond doubt, but you are not yet broken. And you love my son too deeply not to have shattered with his loss.”

She’s right. She is right.

John feels sick at the thought of all the maybes, the may- _still_ -bes; knows that it would be too much, knows he’d never recover.

He admires this woman anew, because she still stands before him, and John—soldier, healer, and more than that, unthinkably, lover and beloved—doesn’t know that he could manage the same.

“I trust you implicitly, John,” she whispers, so very close to him now, and his heart his pounding for fear and revelation, for anticipation and all the unknowns, and he thinks she can feel it, knows that she knows, and isn’t surprised when the words come, even though he feels cold through the whole of him.

"So I need you to promise me that wherever my youngest is, whatever he's up to,” she heaves a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and her voice harden just a bit, lowers and deepens and brooks no arguments, no denials; “that there is a reason for all of this, and a _damned_ good one at that."

And the fact is; the _truth_ is, that John can’t answer that question with perfect honesty. What he can say is:  “There is,” and his voice only falters after the words are out, on the very last letter of the very last syllable. What he can say, is: “There is, and I didn’t, we couldn’t,” and it comes out a half-octave higher than it should. He can say: “There was nothing else,” and he can fumble: “I just—”

And he can fight the tears that want to gather, threaten to fall, and he does, but he cannot say the words beneath his tongue, behind the beating of his heart: _There is a reason, and I am afraid it wasn’t good enough, I’m afraid nothing would be good enough to warrant this, I am afraid that we made a terrible mistake, that I made a terrible mistake and that I will lose him, I will have signed his death certificate and I will have burned the heart out of me in seeking to save his and my own, and you’re right, of course, because in protecting him I protected myself, and I’ve failed us both, I’ve failed—”_

“You know,” Leonore interrupts, and she’s read it all on his face, he’s certain. “Yours is the only soul I know that doubts you, John,” and she draws near again, and her gaze is warmer than he thinks he deserves. “Doubts the soundness of your judgement, or the strength of your resolve,” she cups his cheek with a tenderness he’s not sure even his own mother’s ever managed, ever tried. “The depths of your heart,” she tells him, as if she can see into those depths, as if she knows the things he still hasn’t found words for like the veins of her own wrist. 

The breath escapes him, and it shudders through to his bones when she takes his face in both her hands—and he lets himself shiver for just a moment, lets himself succumb to the way it’s all gone on too long and hurts too much, the way he can’t think too long or too hard about the only thing he wants, the only things he needs: he can’t swell on Sherlock because if John is suffering, then god only knows what the man he loves is enduring in just this hour, just this moment—he _needs_ , and he _can’t_ , and John is strong but something things require more than that, some things the human spirit cowers behind in between crests of triumph. 

So John lets himself cower, just now, in the arms of Mummy Holmes, because she trusts him, and he trusts her in kind. 

“He will come back for you,” she whispers, stroking down his jaw bone and comforting him like a child, and he needs it, fuck, he needs it. “He will fight heaven and earth for you,” she tells him, her voice pitched low, reassuming, lulling and lovely and smooth. “He would conquer hell for you,” she promises, and she presses a kiss to his forehead before drawing him into a swift and solid embrace, and John allows that, too, because he _needs_ , and he is _afraid_ , and it takes the edge off to be close, to be loved, to be comforted with arms and warmth. To be forgiven all his faults, to be held despite his failures. 

“He will come back.” And John wants to believe it with every cell in his body. 

He _needs_ to believe it, and so he clings to a mother not his own, and yet—he clings and he prays and if it feels like a lie, he doesn’t question it. 

If he feels like a fool, he doesn’t care. 


	16. Simple Physics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps it’s the universe listening and actually deigning to respond. 
> 
> Perhaps it’s inevitable.

It’s not as though he hadn’t told Mycroft exactly where to meet him—because Mycroft’s been more than on the mend for good a bit now, and things have been thankfully, if hatefully, quiet. While he doesn’t regret it, as it had been genuinely excellent, John does feel a bit guilty about drinking all that scotch—with no word of Sherlock, he’s has much fewer reasons to see Mycroft, to seek him or be sought, and damn it all, but he misses the fucker, just a bit—the man arcs an eyebrow in surprise as he approaches John in front of The Rag. 

And the truth is? There’s been no word of Sherlock, and John worried sick with it.

And misery doesn’t  crave mere company, so much as camaraderie. Solidarity. 

The truth is, honestly, that he craves solidarity. Craves affirmation of some shared delusion, perhaps, that where he feels like he’s drowning alone right now, together—well.

Together, they might halt the fray.

“This doesn’t quite seem like your,” Mycroft pauses, and purses his lips before continuing: “preferred sort of haunt.”

John shrugs. “Seems like yours, though,” he quips, and rightfully so: while Mycroft looks entirely at home in the Army & Navy in his three piece suit and his fucking pocket square and dear god, that damned umbrella, John’s never quite felt at home amidst all the cherry tabletops, the hanging lights and leather, the hint of tobacco on every inhale even if there’s not a smoker to be found.

“Used to come here with the boys, before we shipped out,” John comments idly as he settles on one of the stools at the bar and straightens his sports coat. “I honestly don’t remember it much,” he adds, a small smirk teasing at the corners of his lips. “Which, in my experience, means the bar is fantastic.”

“And since?” Mycroft asks as he orders two Staggs, neat, and John might have protested at being spoken for if the selection wasn’t quite so good; as it stands, he perfectly satisfied, and he shrugs again, because the reason he joined again when he moved in with Sherlock was because he suspected he’d need a retreat. 

The fact is, however, that once there was a life with Sherlock, there was rarely anywhere else John wanted to be for very long. 

John grabs for his drink as soon as it slides across the countertop, and drinks more than he should in a single swallow; far less than he needs.

“It has been difficult,” Mycroft notes without prelude, not reading John exactly, just stating the obvious truth for the both of them, of so much, too much, of everything. It’s been so long, now, that John’s helf-sick with it; he’s ready to wretch with the way his stomach drops and his chest tightens and dark spots encroach upon his vision. For more hours of the day than he’s willing to admit to, far more than he’s ready to face and address with any real intent.

“But for you,” Mycroft continues, meeting John’s eye for a long moment before diverting them, before studying the bottles lining the wall, and all the glasses stacked beyond. The glass catches the sheen of his eyes for a moment, too quick to be sure. 

“For you, it has been hard for other reasons, in different ways,” Mycroft finally tells the windows beyond them, says in a voice so low John’s hard pressed to suss it out. “I understand that.”

There’s a part of John that wants to scoff at that, wants to bite out something wretched and hateful: because if Mycroft knew, if Mycroft _understood_ , then he’d be clutching his glass tighter to stop the tremors in his hands, he’d have _his_ heart shaking in the cold, unprotected, dangling from a limb; if Mycroft understood, if he _knew_ , he’d have stopped this before it ever started. He’d have found them an out, a different path, and it would have held, and John wouldn’t feel so breathless in the night, would feel his pulse in his neck as he sat with his tea—it wouldn’t be like this if Mycroft _understood_ , god _damnit_ , and there’s a part of John that wants to bury his fist in Mycroft’s face for so much as daring to say it at all. 

There is another part of John, though—a whole host of separate parts that knows the man in front of him better than he could have dreamed he’d ever manage, and there’s something in his tone, his face, his hands that don’t shake or clench but are open, almost bereft, as if they’ve forgotten what they’re meant for and are waiting to grasp something shapeless, and maybe the layers in Mycroft run deeper indeed, still waters masking the trenches.

John watches Mycroft shake himself from whatever reverie has overtaken him in those moments, whatever spectre he’d been too stricken to grasp, and John feels a tightness at the base of his throat, because that’s a look with which he sympathises; that’s a hard swallow down a neck that John mimics and knows falls short.

Mycroft, John sees now, understands more than he lets on, and it kills John to think on it, to process the hurt on top of his own, to despair at the pain shuddered tightly behind those eyes and to suspect the way it festers: to wonder if he’s bound for that, himself, if this will end with John in tatters, a hollow husk behind blank eyes.

“The work is dangerous,” Mycroft murmurs, gaze flickering to John again, considering. “As you know.”

John glances toward Mycroft’s hands once more, watches the way those open palms stretch as the knuckles twitch, aching to clutch at ghosts, and there are other things—they both know that there are other things far more dangerous than the work.

“We’d never been,” Mycroft looks to the ceiling, his breath catching as he sighs out: “anything, really. She worked intelligence. I’d watched her for months, and I fancied that she was watching back,” and John, as he has been so often of late, is struck by Mycroft’s undeniable humanness. It’s not surprising anymore, exactly, but it’s still arresting, still profound.

“She knew how I took my coffee,” he carries on. “I knew she imported her tea. I took the liberty—” he shakes his head, regroups. “She ate dark chocolate when our training exercises drained her, or when her resolve wavered. She offered me a square once, and it tasted sweeter than it had any right,” and when his lips quirk up, it makes John feel emptier even than he already does, because he cares for the man next to him, this unlikely brother, and John knows what it feels like to ache, and he doesn’t wish it on Mycroft Holmes.

“Her smile was more fleeting than...” he trails off, almost wistful, ineffably sad, and John can think of fleeting things, too; John can think of Sherlock’s breath panting at his neck, condensation gathering for an instant and shivering down his spine before Sherlock’s mouth licked it clean; John can think of Sherlock’s fingers dancing over his ribs, his thighs, lilting moment by moment as John trembled, tilted just at the edge of madness; John can think of the fall of a tear down Sherlock’s face.

John can think of a fall that took too long, ended too soon. 

Fleeting.

Never-ending.

“She emptied my mind for long seconds,”Mycroft says, and John snaps back, ribs still feeling far too small.

"The cup of her hands fit the shape of my skull, just so,” Mycroft pauses, looks amused, almost wistful. “She could make me laugh."

And that’s how John knows there was feeling. That’s how John knows there’s a commonality between the kind of hateful longing in his stomach and his heart and the kind that Mycroft’s speaking to—a sameness in the nature, if not in the depth.

“I was wounded during an extraction,” Mycroft recalls, tone soft and empty. “She came to my room once during my convalescence. Kissed me. Brutal,” he flinches, but doesn't frown. “I’d been foolish enough to think the tang between us came from tears until the morning, until I traced the bites against my lip and saw them open, watched the blood.”

“The last night, our last night," Mycroft pauses, eyes sliding closed. "I remember it best,” he whispers, reverent: “In Bern.”

“She was without angles; smooth. She smelled of spices," he breathes in heavily, as if he can still smell it, and John thinks yes, he can, of course he can, because if John closes his eyes and inhales he can smell Sherlock’s toothpaste and the way the collar of his coat was all detergent and the tang of sweat, the rub of his shampoo.

John can guess at what Mycroft remembers.

"Her eyes were near-black, the lashes sharp. Her flesh bruised easily,” Mycroft’s eyes slide closed as his voice dips low, and John watches him fight a shudder: teeth clenched, shoulders far too tense, even for him—the same way Sherlock used to, before he knew it was safe to shake in John’s presence, in John’s arms.

The look on Mycroft, the hint of what it means: it’s uncomfortable, yes, but it’s fascinating—another glimpse of what lives behind all the locked doors, and John’s learned to love that, with Sherlock; has learned to love piecing together a puzzle, to cherish each part in its turn.

“She was cool, her touch, it was cold, it was everywhere." Mycroft beings to trail off, and John takes a drink, quick to the back of his mouth; relishes the way it burns in his throat like a penance as his body recalls the touch of his own lover, his own heart tracing his ribs, kneading his thighs: warmer than it had any right to be.

"She was all weightlessness," Mycroft muses softly after a pause, and he sounds lost, and that frightens John, that makes John ache. "And it was infectious, it was free. I don’t know if I have ever,” Mycroft's voice cracks, just a bit. “Not since," he drifts, and his eyes are clear for a moment, full, before they shutter.

"That might be recollection working against me, however,” he frowns, his expression sour. “Skewing the facts."

John knows that feeling, that fear all too well.

“She was killed three days later,” Mycroft relates without feeling. “Her location was compromised. A hired gun."

John watches the melting ice in Mycroft’s empty glass, the way Mycroft traces the edges idly, and John’s mind remembers the red on the pavement, John’s mind recalls that night in Singapore and Sherlock’s thrumming pulse, and John sees the images from his nightmares in sequence, unrelenting; all holes in foreheads and blood from arteries and necks at unnatural angles and oh, but it makes his stomach churn, it makes his head spin, and if he has to clench the bar against the sensation of falling until his knuckles strain, it’s unsurprising. 

And Mycroft sees it, or so John likes to think; Mycroft sees what he needs to, and speaks again to pull John back from the edge, but not from the need to feel just now, to sink into the fear and give it its due.

“In reality, I look back, and it was only moments,” Mycroft admits softly. “I knew nothing of her, nothing that mattered. I didn’t know her favourite song, whether she had any family, where she was from. I don’t believe I ever learned her real name,” he blinks, scoffs, though at what, it isn’t clear. “She certainly never knew mine.”

“There was nothing to bind us, not truly,” Mycroft slides his glass toward the opposite side of the bar, where the glass is refilled and returned without comment. “There was foolish idealism and the wayward daydreams of a child,” and he sneers, though it lacks much bite. “Idle sentiment following convention, aiming and stretching, contorting toward something like love.

“Only moments,” he says it again, the repetition sour and yet new; “and yet that left so many possibilities to mourn,” he observes, relays: tragic. “Perhaps that was worse, just the moments.” Mycroft’s voice trails, then, and his eyes grow distant.

“Sometimes they felt like a lifetime,” he breathes, confession and damnation and ever-lingering regret:  “as if the only person the world could ever want was the man I was with her.”

And John finds it difficult to swallow, just then, for more reasons, more underlying hurts than he’s willing to quantify, or admit to. More than he thinks he could stand to enumerate or articulate, or even face.

“I came home that Christmas.” Mycroft swirls his drink and studies the motion, the slip and glide of the amber through the glass. “My brother and I had something of a disagreement.”

And John, of course, knows exactly where this is going, but he isn’t sure that he ever expected to hear it from either brother’s mouth so directly, not with both of them so much in need of the words and the words meant to come in reply.

“He left, and the weather,” Mycroft stares into his glass, still full, and John wonders for a moment at the looseness of his tongue, at the build of feeling and regret that must have festered in this man for so long—he hadn’t needed the drink at all.

“You know about our father.” It’s a statement, not a question, and as such John takes it without comment, without any response at all, because John’s had enough nights wrestling with the unnamed weight upon Sherlock’s shoulders, cased around that heart and yes. 

Yes, John does indeed know. All too well.

“Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side.” Mycroft says it, but it’s not a judgement, or a censure, or a rubbing of deliberate salt into any wound. He says it almost by rote, a fact long learned and long held and too ingrained to eradicate, even if he wanted to, and he just might, John thinks; the way his jaw tenses and his lips thin, John thinks he might.

“That doesn’t mean I’ve never fallen prey to it,” Mycroft admits it softly, thick in the tightness of his throat as he blinks;  “or that I don’t suffer its consequences.”

And John’s throat’s gone tight and there’s still light snaking through the windows across the way, and if they’re the last bastions of strength in this, then it’s a goddamned shame, because John’s faltering, failing now after all this, when it matters most, and Mycroft’s shown his hand, here and now, and it’s just as shit.

And it doesn’t matter that John’s sick to his stomach for the way his heart wrenches in his chest, because if there’s one thing that they can’t abide, that John will not survive in the end, it’s failing.

Not in this.

“Another round,” he says, the pitch of his voice all wrong, when the bartender passes by once more.

They both need it.

 

______________________________________

 

Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps it’s the universe listening and actually deigning to respond. 

Perhaps it’s inevitable.

Whatever it is, though, John thinks, still a bit light with the sheer quantity of drink he has consumed— John is nonetheless now stretched on his bed with his eyes closed, open palm on his chest but it’s lighter, the fingers longer and thinner, the pads of them knowing so much, seeing so much, stroking soft but unpredictably, playing a counterpoint above the strong, rhythmic pump within—and John can shiver, John can sigh against the way tangible, undeniable affection soaks in through the skin and bones and settles in his blood from that touch; John’s still drifting between want and need when his mobile pings at him. 

_Chechnya. Five hours._

Mycroft, of course.

And for all that it rushes in his veins—all worry and terror and hope and _finally_ —John lets himself have one more minute, a last strand of breaths as his pulse begins to speed and surge, as the hand he holds against the beat becomes his own again, however slowly. He lets himself linger here inside the unreal and the _too_ real, in this space where Sherlock’s laughter, that heavy chuckle echoes through a vacuum as he presses lips to John’s sternum and exhales, _Not fate, love, simply physics. Undeniable as gravity,_ and fuck, but John could never have dreamed that he’d be grateful for gravity as if it were diamond, as if it were freedom and coagulation in a wound: a blessing and a necessity and all the air he needs to breathe.

He lets himself have the moment, before he rises, and prepares to find his partner, to save them both in the process.

______________________________________

The instructions he receives are crystal-clear, the coordinates precise. When he reaches his destination, he’s just this side of surprised: sleek glass tiles line the entire skyrise, and Sherlock has been hiding almost exclusively in squalor before now—John remains skeptical, however, as he closes his eyes so as not to check his phone for the information: seventh floor, tenth door to the left, on the left.

Right.

So John’s particular, precise in his turn, when he enters the room, secures the empty flat and the door behind him almost without thinking. He inspects the kitchen—sparse, but there’s food where there hadn’t been in his other hideouts: fresh strawberries and a pint of milk, still good, but only just . The shower is dry, but there are a few stray drops of water that have yet to evaporate from the corner for the poor circulation, the lack of ventilation. There’s a shirt on the bed, a shirt in Sherlock’s size if not his style: the collar still smells of Sherlock’s skin, that musk that John knows like a handprint, that sends his blood rushing harder until he finds the magnifier in the pocket and he knows, he _knows_ something’s wrong.

Sherlock never leaves without that damned thing. Not ever.

And that’s why John’s blood rushes faster now, too. His hands shake as he dials and the ringing is endless, interminable, and he feels just this side of faint when the line picks up, when the words leave his own mouth like the last gasps he’ll ever bear again because no, no, _no_.

“Mycroft,” John breathes, and his voice barely works, much like the beating heart that’s threatening to choke. “He’s gone.”


	17. All Manner Of Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spent the first two weeks tracking every lead alongside the finest operatives Mycroft could wrangle; the elder Holmes hadn’t even bothered to mount a protest, and John can admit now—would have admitted then, too—that the way Mycroft had assembled a team and placed John on it without a second’s hesitation had hardened in his gut like nothing else. That made it all real. 
> 
> That made Sherlock missing; made him that much closer to _gone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my gratitude and affection to [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) for the Beta-Britpick.
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, this story is now finished on my hard drive, pending an epilogue. What even.)

His feet should be cold. They might be cold. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t notice.

John’s not sure what day it is, isn’t sure how gravity can still exist: the ambient temperature, the comfort of his limbs—it’s trivial, at best.

John doesn’t want to think about what it might be, at worst.

Because what John knows is that the statistics say that if a missing person has not been located within forty-eight hours, their odds of being found alive are halved. 

Apply that model to the current situation, and the odds of locating the man he loves stand at less than .003 percent.

John spent the first two weeks tracking every lead alongside the finest operatives Mycroft could wrangle; the elder Holmes hadn’t even bothered to mount a protest, and John can admit now—would have admitted then, too—that the way Mycroft had assembled a team and placed John on it without a second’s hesitation had hardened in his gut like nothing else. That made it all real. 

That made Sherlock missing; made him that much closer to _gone_.

The dead ends had gone quickly from frustrating to maddening, and from maddening to heart-wrenching. Once John had transitioned from heart-wrenching to something deeper, something more broken, Mycroft had called him off, and while John knows he’s been exercising every resource at his disposal since, there’s been nothing. Not a trace, not a word.

Nothing.

And they’d both agreed, in the beginning, that it was entirely possible that Sherlock would have to vanish, for his own sake, for theirs—yes, it was possible, and it was well within Sherlock’s capacities. 

John, though: John can’t help going back to Vancouver in his mind, back to a Sherlock who was sloppy, distracted, and so bone-tired that he might not have had it in him to hold a gun straight for much longer, let alone pull the trigger.

John goes home that night and dry-heaves, shivers until dawn.

So the weeks pass, and John realises that this is what drove him to contemplate his gun so keenly, so closely following his discharge, except before, he hadn’t known what he was missing. He’d never felt his chest full before, to know it was hollow now. He’d never felt his blood to be so warm that he would ache with the cold.

He does try, of course. He goes to work as often as he can, despite Mycroft’s assurances that his finances are well accounted for. John diagnoses colds and gout and arthritis for a good few days before Sarah sees it, the deadness in his eyes that makes even John feel sick to see when he catches his own reflection by accident. When she sends him home to rest, to sleep off whatever he’s caught, John has to wrestle with himself not to take a bottle of something, anything, just to dull it all, just to make his chest stop caving in.

So he ends up staring. 

He ends up sitting in his chair—sometimes on the sofa, but nowhere else—half-dressed, bare-footed, staring into oblivion, and his feet should be cold, he gets that, but sometimes when he stares he manages to think of nothing, and that’s good, that’s beautiful, because when he’s thinking of nothing the memories seep in and he can smell Sherlock’s skin, and he can feel Sherlock’s warmth from the time when Sherlock had taken his ankle—twisted, nothing more severe—in his hands and wrapped it tight but gentle, had kissed John’s calf and massaged the muscle, and John’s feet hadn’t been cold that night, and if John can stare and lose himself in those moments, it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

More often, though, when he stares, John thinks of everything, John thinks about Sherlock’s smile and the colour that his long-dead skin might be, and the way it’s all John’s fault because John said they wouldn’t last, couldn’t run, because John hadn’t had Sherlock’s faith and John did this, John made this, and John deserves this suffering, deserves this horror and this breaking; John deserves much worse.

The memories that come when John’s thinking—they’re bittersweet, all his failings, all the times that Sherlock picked him up from every fall the way John hadn’t be able to, the way John never could, and maybe that’s why John’s left on his own, now, left without anyone to reach for him and put him to rights and hold him close: John is alone, and John is made of sorrow and loss because John squandered what he had; because John doesn’t deserve anything more.

The memories that come when he’s thinking hurt like hell.

There’s Sherlock, though: in the memories, John has Sherlock.

His feet are cold, freezing, but then so is the rest of him.

Irrelevant. 

John stares. John thinks.

John remembers.

__________________________________________________________

_  
John wakes with swollen lips; his chest feels constricted, confined—his nose still stings with the chlorine in the air, and there’s a sort of tingling to the whole of his skin and he’s warm, too warm because it’s cold, still, he can feel it on the air and yet he’s not. Cold._

_He isn’t cold._

_He’d been cold, the night before, by the pool, even beneath the jacket, and so he knows, he knows the truth of the soft give beneath him, the way the pressure on his chest only settles, doesn’t wrap around: John knows that when he opens his eyes, he won’t see water, he won’t find explosives strapped around his ribs._

_What he does find, however, that some of the tingling’s more of a tickling, and it’s focused particularly along the line of his throat; what he does find is a head of dark curls pooled near his collarbone, and the pressure on his chest is not only entirely benign, but pleasant: the rest of the tingling’s positively _electric_ and the heat that’s coursing through him and battling the chill of early morning is due entirely to the attentions of lips fuller, more swollen even than his own pressing, kissing up John’s chest in careful increments, endlessly precise._

_And John doesn’t tense, his pulse doesn’t register it just yet because the warmth of it is gorgeous, the touch is lilting, almost tender, and the contrast of the skin of his chest with the bent nape of that neck is understatedly intoxicating for no goddamned reason at all._

_John shivers as Sherlock’s open mouth presses a wet ring to the very peak of his sternum, and Sherlock freezes, and it’s then that John’s heart decides to kick hard against his ribs as he watches Sherlock’s head tilt, considering, and it could be incidental, the brush of Sherlock’s nose to the skin of John’s chest—John’s not foolish enough to call it a nuzzle—as he draws back, as he meets John’s gaze through his lashes and holds it; he locks the stare and keeps it while he leans in once more, careful, gentle as he drops a kiss to hollow of John’s throat, slow and savouring, almost as if he’s aiming to memorise it: as he breathes in at the base of John’s neck and lingers for a moment too long before he straightens, and his warmth is gone, and he’s off the bed and out the door before John can so much as take a breath of his own._

_He only just manages to process his situation, only just begins to slot together all of what transpired the night before—the slam of his back against the wall and the feel of Sherlock’s hot breath and the way Sherlock had trembled, and thrummed around him, beneath him, in and through him as they both affirmed what it meant to be breathing and as John gave wings if not so many words to the way his own heart had been entwined in the very essence of his flatmate from damn the near the very start; as Sherlock gave voice to ideas and feelings deeper than John can rightly believe, but the way they’d touched, the primal elegance of it even amidst the din of near-death, John can’t disregard that, John won’t; but he only just manages to get a handle of what’s passed between them when Sherlock enters the room—John’s room, yes, John’s—fully dressed, eyes glued to the screen of his phone._

_“Double homicide, Brixton.”_

_Sherlock quirks a brow. John is very aware of the fact that he’s very, very naked in his bed._

_“Coming?”_

_And he’s off._

_John’s very aware of the way his pulse pounds to the sound of Sherlock’s feet on the stairs; he’s very, very aware of the way his skin is pinkening, bruising, just a hair where Sherlock’s mouth had been, just now, and it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t, it was real, and this is what it is to return to the norm._

_Their norm._

_So what follows is nothing out of the ordinary, generally speaking: it’s the longer side of a short case, as far as cases go—they crack a human trafficking ring, and they hand the worst sorts of scum over to Lestrade with minimal threat to their own well-beings: justice is served, Sherlock emerges triumphant, and John comes out of it feeling fairly chuffed indeed over the fact that Sherlock can in fact emerge as anything at all, instead of being rushed to A &E after collapsing spectacularly from dehydration. _

_John counts this as a personal win achieved via a single sip of a protein shake that he’d tricked a distracted Sherlock into taking, and a few stray drops of Lucozade swallowed by accident when John had very deliberately spilled some in Sherlock’s face._

_What follows that, however, is John, returning to a flat that should feel like home, and yet feels foreign; a place where he should feel at ease, and yet he feels anything but._

_Because for four whole days—and John shouldn’t be surprised, on any accounts—but for four whole days, Sherlock had interacted with him as he usually would on a case: minimally, and almost solely in connection with The Work. He’d given absolutely no indication of the evening they’d spent in bed together—just an evening, John reminds himself; nothing but stress and fear and the high of escaping with their lives, just one night that may well have been no more than a mistake—but Sherlock says nothing of it, doesn’t even allude to its existence, to the half-cocked words and sentiments exchanged: true ones, on John’s part, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that was the case on both sides, but regardless._

_Not the point._

_The point is, John _had_ been stupid enough to suppose that once they were behind closed doors, once the case was closed and the suspects in custody, once victory had been declared once more: John had hoped, just a bit, that he’d merit at best a touch, a brush of skin—at worst, a word of explanation, or simply a ‘heat of the moment, don’t read into it’, to take with him to his own empty bed so that he could neatly wrap up that memory and store it away accordingly. _

_John has thought he’d merit _something_ , because yeah, John had shown his hand when he’d grabbed a psychopath and offered to trade his beating heart for Sherlock fucking Holmes; he’d given himself away when he’d said in the midst of it, in the heat of it _I don’t want to remember what the world looks like outside of this_ Everything, John, you are everything, and fuck all, but John had looked into those eyes and believed._

_No question._

_So to say he feels cheated, to say he feels useless and limbless and a little bit bereft as he sits on the sofa, alone, after Sherlock’s gone quietly to his room to sleep off the rush, well, it’d be one hell of an understatement._

_And he’s not too proud to admit he’s feeling sick to his stomach as he stares into the wall, asking the pattern there for answers, like when did he become so blind, so foolish, so willing to believe in fairytales and impossibilities, and he wants to burn it, just a little, or put his fist through through the layers because the answer, the only answer, is **since you met Sherlock Holmes, ever since.**_

_Goddamnit._

_He doesn’t realise he’s drifting off, doesn’t recognise the blank spots in his recollection, between his breaths, not until there are hands on either side of his chest, flat, near-possessive, still featherlight, and John’s not so fuzzy that the paradox escapes him, but his pulse kicks up quick and the left hand strokes up and down like clockwork as hair teases his cheek, as warmth leans in, soft and lazy and exhausted and desperate and full._

_“Come to bed, John,” Sherlock murmurs just below his ear, lips trailing against John’s skin before he pulls back, thinks twice, and kisses the space where his words settled, caressed._

_And that left hand, it strokes down once more to grasp John’s hand, to lace fingers together and lead John up, lead John around, to lead John close until Sherlock presses them together at the brow and breathes, slow and trembling, contained and overwrought, and John shakes with an exhale he doesn’t make and yes._

_Yes._

_John comes to bed._

__________________________________________________________

John hears Mrs. Hudson enter the flat; he thinks about greeting her, thinks about saying anything, really, but it doesn’t go past that. 

He’s thinking.

John listens to her in the kitchen, wonders for a moment what there is to move, to clean: he doesn’t remember the last time he dirtied a dish, doesn’t recall eating dinner last night, or lunch before that—he eats about half a crust of toast for breakfast most days, and lives off supermarket sarnies when he drags himself to the surgery—when Sarah’s not there to call him out for the mess that he is, when she doesn’t demand he go back home to rest, to recover, to grieve a loss that everyone’s baffled by, just a bit, because hasn’t Sherlock been gone long enough, now, and John had seemed to be coping, had seemed to heal, and that makes it ache, makes it tear all the worse.

John listens to Mrs. Hudson tut over the spoiled milk, the rotten meat in the fridge, and if he closes his eyes and breathes deep, he can imagine Sherlock’s experiments, can see that curly hair hanging, framing his face as he leans over to measure mould growth or god knows what—John can imagine.

He hears weight hit the table next to him; his eyes snap open, and he sees a fresh cup of tea, watches Mrs. Hudson take the cold one—days old, now—and rinse it down the sink. He breathes in, and the air feels too thick.

“You’re not our housekeeper.” The words are out before he can stop them, before he realises that speaking isn’t something he’s up for, isn’t something he’s good at just now.

 _Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end_.

He hears a gasp, a swallowed sob, and he doesn’t know if it belongs to him or not.

Except no, no: it’s not his, because Mrs. Hudson’s shaking just a bit when she drops an unexpected kiss to John’s head, pats him on the shoulder and hurries back down the stairs, and John’s a little baffled, stares around his surroundings and sees that they’re tidier, maybe, he thinks they are; sees a casserole dish on the kitchen table that wasn’t there before, smells whatever’s inside just a little, the hint of a whiff of savoury. 

Right. He should be hungry.

He isn’t.

He continues sitting. He thinks about reaching for the tea, but it doesn’t go past that.

Thinking.

It takes John a long stretch of minute to realise what had caused the sniffling, the tears—when it hits him, it strikes straight in the centre of his chest; lodges, and he shudders with it as he slides from his seat and crumbles to the floor, leans back against the sofa and shakes, just shakes.

Not our housekeeper.

Not _ours_.

__________________________________________________________

_The sigh that Sherlock heaves rustles through John’s hair at the temple, toward to roots, and John shivers once for the breath, and again as Sherlock’s arms curls around his waist, as John’s back is brought flush against Sherlock’s chest, spine to sternum as Sherlock ducks his chin, presses open lips against the naked globe of John’s shoulder: not a kiss so much as a sense of groundedness, a sense of reality amidst shadows and uncertainties that John can feel lurking between his own lungs—that he knows Sherlock’s glimpsed, even if he can’t suss their nature out._

_“What is it?” Sherlock finally mouths against John’s skin, his palm snaking upward from John’s navel, pausing at the seventh, the sixth of his ribs. John tenses, and he feels Sherlock tense in turn, feels Sherlock’s fingers twitch against his flesh as Sherlock’s breathing speeds a bit against the back of his neck, and when John laughs without a thread of humour, Sherlock’s hand slips back to his hipbone, hesitant in a way it hadn’t been since they’d started—certainly shouldn’t be now that John’s said it, now that they’ve both named this thing between them for what it is, for what John had known it to be for longer than makes any sense and had never so much as dared to think could ever be matched in kind, let alone in strength; and John realises all that they’ve taken for granted, all the conversations they’ve left to the fray because the feeling was enough to buoy them, and he wonders what it all means._

_John wonders, and hopes like hell the clenching in his chest when he thinks about it now doesn’t mean a damn thing, save for the fact that they’re both of them fools, as they’ve always been, and they’ll weather it as they’ve always done, and Sherlock’s hand won’t ever leave his skin, that the lungs that move against his vertebrae won’t ever seek another place to breathe._

_“It drives you mad, doesn’t it?” John whispers. “Not being able to read it, not knowing,” and John acts on a whim and takes the hand that doesn’t hold him, brings Sherlock’s knuckles to his lips and mouths them slowly, drags between the dips and breathes in heavy between each finger, gains footing because Sherlock lets him, Sherlock gives him this and asks for nothing, and if he doesn’t move his hand any closer over John’s hip, he doesn’t pull away._

_He doesn’t pull away._

_“I don’t.” John speaks, because Sherlock’s silence has always been more oppressive, more like drowning than even the most scathing of his words. “It’s silly.” And it is, John knows it’s absolutely juvenile, it’s pointless and it might even be enough to call it a weakness, holding onto it now, in the after, when it doesn’t matter anymore even if it was true, but he can’t shake it, can’t seem to shuck it from his bones._

_When he inhales, it’s shaky; when Sherlock’s hands comes again to the lowest line of his ribs, John fills almost bound to sob._

_“I can see it in you,” Sherlock breathes against his neck. “Festering, whatever it is. And watching that,” John shivers, nearly moans when Sherlock’s tongue dips out, just so between the letters, the words: “John, for reasons I cannot comprehend, it hurts.”_

_And John, for all that it has been churning in his gut, deep in his chest all this time: for all that it was ailing him, it _kills_ him now that Sherlock aches with it, because if John is quiet, and still; if he closes his eyes he can feel the force of Sherlock’s pulse against the line of his back and it’s everything, it’s fucking _everything_ and nothing matters, save for that—save for this._

_It was foolish of him, to put this distance between them, to hide and let this stew until Sherlock curled against them in their bed and radiated the worst of things, emanated pain and fear and any sort of question as to where they stood, as to where John held Sherlock in his life, in his world, in his heart._

_John won’t have that, and it was foolish to have caused it, to have been so fucking blind._

_“You thought it was me,” John finally murmurs, whimpers, and he doesn’t have to explain, doesn’t have to tell Sherlock that his mind’s still half-lost to that pool, to that night where everything was put on the line and John never had to make a choice because he’d long known he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, he’d come to terms with the depth of that connection from his end from the very first: he doesn’t have to bring Sherlock back to that place with him, because Sherlock is there, Sherlock lives in those moments, and he can meet John there without admitting to the way it still burns in both their throats, their lungs._

_Sherlock’s hand, though, on John’s chest: Sherlock’s hand presses, clutches just a little tighter._

_“You thought I was the one pulling the strings,” John mouths the words, regretful and so sad, yet none of it does justice to the way it’s been roiling in the pit of his stomach, the way he’s felt inadequate, the way he’s feared for what trust means between them, for what he’d done to spur that question, to make it rise at all despite the evidence, despite the facts—for where he’d fallen short once, and may well fall short again._

_“You thought that I was him.”_

_John steadies himself for the quiet, for the heartbreaking still that will follow, that must follow; he steadies himself, but it doesn’t come._

_“ No.” _

_Sherlock hisses it: pulls back and manoeuvres their bodies so that he can see John’s eyes, can look him square on and hold._

_“I thought this,” Sherlock touches John’s face, lets his hand trail to John’s chest and linger for a moment, long and leaden, before Sherlock draws John’s hand up in his own and presses it to his own chest, high enough that he can bend to kiss the fingertips, low enough to hold against the heart._

_“I thought this was his,” he breathes into John’s fingerprints, and John can feel the way his pulse runs calmer than it had, seems stronger, steadier than it moved against his back, now that they’re face to face, now that they’re close, and when Sherlock looks up, John’s mouth is on his before he can speak again, because none of it matters, none of it could matter, because that heart is his, that heart thinks he is worthy, and his own heart isn’t lingering in the dark on its own, no, it’s been claimed and held and maybe even cherished, maybe it knows the same kind of love that John holds for Sherlock, the kind that John brims with and lavishes joyfully upon every millimetre of his madman, his North Star, every neurone and heartbeat and skin cell and tastebud and all of this impossibility, when it’s all said and done: it’s his._

_Sherlock Holmes is his._

__________________________________________________________

“I’ve been at this for longer than I care to admit, you know,” Greg tells him, and the man’s eyes are sharper than John’s ever seen them, or maybe, just sharper than he’s ever noticed. It’s clear, in that moment, in a way it’s never been before, just why he does what he does, and does it damn well.

John takes a sip of his lager, but he doesn’t taste anything, which isn’t new. He’s not even sure it’s wet on his tongue or cool down his throat. He tries to focus on the wall behind Greg’s head through the haze of a smoke that’s not even there, and his eyes burn for it, for its absence: for other absences.

“One thing he taught me was that nothing’s ever what it looks like on the surface, never mind how shallow it all seems.”

And John’s come to love and hate the way that Lestrade won’t say the name, won’t speak it—it’s like a sacred and leprous thing all at once and John wants to lick his wounds in the space left where that name is omitted; he wants to scream at the top of his lungs that Sherlock Holmes was brilliant and trying and ineffable and perfect and he was all the central parts of John’s solar system, his heart and his mind and his soul. 

“It always took longer than he liked, but I didn’t mind so much, after a while,” Greg’s lips quirk, a little sad as he looks down into his drink, and John wants to read into everything Greg’s saying, wants to think about the miracle he asked for without really needing it, wants to rail at gods and devils and gravity, at good and evil and the length of a human life and tell them all that no, it can’t be this way, it’s not just unfair, it’s unconscionable, it’s unbearable, and he’ll choke on it, he’ll choke on all the nothing where there was more than just something, there was _everything_ and it was _John’s_ —

“Because,” Greg cuts in, and John’s pulse shudders for the way the words cut in, build up: “I grew to have this kind of twisted, cock-eyed faith in him. And for all the shit that came of it, now and again,” and this time, Greg grins for real: “in the end, he never let me down.”

John swallows hard, but his mouth’s too dry, and his heart is pounding around a lack of blood, a hollowness that hurts with each contraction, that gapes when every release fails to fill, and fuck, he wants to believe, he _needs_ to believe it wasn’t for nothing, needs to believe he didn’t sign a death warrant when he kissed Sherlock goodbye on their doorstep, he needs to touch that body, that flesh and find it warm, he needs hands to come to him and hold him and grasp and he knows it’s too much, he knows he’s broken and he doesn’t deserve such riches, such blessing, but he needs to damn much, he can’t stomach it, he can’t breathe through it, he _can’t_ —

“One more round,” Greg touches his shoulder, grasps it and pulls him back from an imaginary ledge above a very tangible shattering, and John’s voice would break if he tries it now but he doesn’t have to, because Greg’s hand squeezes before he stands to get the drinks. “Then I send you home to sleep it off, got it?”

John nods, empties the rest of his pint, and it’s still not wet, or cold, but his stomach roils over it, over everything, and John closes his eyes and bites his tongue and prays it’s a nightmare, all of it.

Prays he’ll wake up and it was never real, or else, that he won’t wake up at all.

__________________________________________________________

 

_Their first real row, after things were different, after they were different, for all that some things felt the same—honestly, John doesn’t even remember what it was about. It wasn’t about the small intestine pickling in the fridge, that he knows. It wasn’t about the shard he’d stepped on from a beaker broken when Sherlock had damn near collapsed from exhaustion the night before. It wasn’t even when Sherlock burnt half the kitchen in trying to bake a soufflé, simply to prove he was capable, and conveniently forgot there were human feet he’d been storing in the oven._

_That had been a close call, mind._

_But it’s none of those things, and all John knows is that he’d left. Needed some air. Ended up with a good four pints to go alongside._

_All John knows is that the seventeen steps up to the flat had never seemed quite so steep before._

_His key catches when he slots it in, but he needn’t have bothered: the door’s unlocked, and that sits sour in his chest as he pushes it open, lets his eyes adjust to the pitch-black and it’s not until he spots Sherlock’s silhouette on the sofa that John realises his lungs were waiting to exhale, waiting on him to locate that infuriating love of his fucking life where he reclined, hands folded under his chin, eyes closed._

_But John’s always been waiting on him, it seems, so maybe it’s really no surprise._

_“In matters of intellect I may be exceptional,” Sherlock’s voice cuts through the darkness as John pauses halfway toward the kitchen, unsure whether he should speak or approach or do anything, really, save leave it all for morning and hope they’ve both forgotten the tension along with its cause._

_“But in matters of sentiment, John,” Sherlock continues; “in matters of the heart, I am mortal, I am ordinary, I am a man, no more and no less and you expect me to move mountains and I cannot, I cannot because caring is a weakness, it is a weakness.”_

_John tastes the blood from between his lips where he’s biting, where he hadn’t noticed he’d been biting until he cuts through skin, because of course it’s a weakness, of course it’s a defect and John should have seen it coming, John should have—_

_“John.”_

_John should have heard Sherlock approach before the man stood not a breath in front of him, just his eyes catching in spare beams of light; John should have known he was there so that he could breathe before Sherlock was close enough to catch the exhale, to feel the rise of his chest with his lungs._

_“It is a weakness I gladly maintain,” and Sherlock’s voice is soft, now, less calculating, and John’s not expecting Sherlock’s palm against his cheek, so light, like he’s something precious, or maybe sacred._

_“But I cannot be what you are accustomed to,” Sherlock continues, and while his eyes divert his thumb strokes against John’s jaw, and something tugs beneath the surface, something rises in him that he can’t name or tie down. “I cannot react and respond as you desire, as you require, I’m not built to—”_

_Sherlock’s hand falls from John’s face just as John moves to hold it there, to keep it, to keep _him_ because John knows, now, what’s rising in him, what’s consuming him, and it’s the same thing he remembers from battle, the same thing he wouldn’t speak aloud then, and won’t say now, but he knows it._

_He knows it’s fear._

_“You are the heart, you know this,” Sherlock whispers, wrings his hands together and John wonders if he’s lacing his own fingers together out of nerves, or to keep from reaching, and John wishes it was neither, because he wants to touch, he wants; “for better or for worse.”_

_And where Sherlock laughs hollowly, hatefully—empty; where Sherlock laughs, John knows those vows and wishes, in the darkest corners of his own mind and the deepest veins around his own heart that they were being made, that they were true, beyond all logic or timing or capacity for truth._

_He _wants_ , and he should know better, he should know better than to want because it never ends well._

_Men like him aren’t meant for ends like this._

_“But John,” Sherlock begins again, and John’s not sure he wants to hear it, John’s not sure it wouldn’t be better to turn tail and run; “if I am not enough, you are the one who will have to make that clear. For all that I might see, or deduce it,” Sherlock trails off, and John doesn’t think he understands, must not have heard correctly, must have missed something vital, because suddenly Sherlock’s hands are still, and reaching, suddenly Sherlock’s fingertips are lilting along the nailbeds of John’s._

_“Caring is a weakness,” Sherlock whispers, before he laces their hands together, slow, deliberate, highlighting where they catch and pull but fit—in the end, where they fit, and when Sherlock brings John’s hand in his to his chest, John has to move, has to step forward, has to commit._

_Oh, fuck: gladly._

_“But the feeling here has become stronger than I know how to bear,” Sherlock keens, almost moans. “And it will blind me,” and John can feel the way his chest heaves with the air that passes in, filters out. “It will blind me and consume you in the process if it has its way, and I’m afraid I won’t see you faltering until you’ve already fallen.”_

_John looks up, then, draws his gaze from their hands to Sherlock’s eyes and they’re wider than physics should allow; they’re brighter than the moon in the sky._

_“And that will break us both,” Sherlock mourns before it’s time, before there’s anything broken, and John wants more than anything to remind him of that, to takes his lips against John’s own and prove to him all truths._

_“You would recover,” Sherlock breathes out, squeezes John’s hand and presses his palm closer, crushes it as if to meld skin to bone._

_“It would cripple me,” Sherlock confesses, and there: that’s what’s broken, and John can’t, he can’t stand idly, he needs to fix what he didn’t mean to tear, if he tore, if he misstepped or misspoke and ushered doubt through some crack in a window, some gap in a door—he must, but Sherlock doesn’t stop, Sherlock’s words spill forth, and John’s not sure either of them mean for this, John’s not sure either of them are built to take this, are built to hold such feeling in words, undeniable, but there’s no time, there’s no choice, and John will be damned if this shatters them._

_John will be damned._

_“I am no more than a man, John,” Sherlock says it, and it’s the just hint of the tide, the rumble of an avalanche as it builds: “and I am what I always was. You have scaled the walls in my mind and stripped my armour and you have changed me for it, yes, you have changed me in ways I could never have predicted, would never have envisioned or thought to hold fast against, but I am still as,” Sherlock swallows, and even in the dark John can see how lost he looks, how his eyes dart, terrified, and John’s hand is still held against his chest, clamped lethal there to the point of numbness, and John doubts that Sherlock even knows he’s holding John captive of John’s own will but the touch is there, the touch remains, and if John could have any one thing at that moment, any single thing, he would lean in and stay Sherlock’s frantic words with his lips in hopes of soothing his frantic heart in the process as it thrums beneath John’s hand, all terror and longing; if John could have one thing, he’d trade his heart with Sherlock’s straight out and prove how his own is thrashing just the same, just as lost, just as mired in this, just as foolish and wasted for this._

_“I am still as maddening and unconventional and unpleasant as I’ve ever been,” Sherlock confesses, head bowed, waiting for some deathblow. “And I will not fault you for deeming that unworthy.”_

_John feels his jaw drop, and wishes Sherlock were looking, wishes Sherlock could see: **oh god, not ever, not even close**._

_“I will fault you, however,” Sherlock continues, and it’s then that he release John’s hand, as if burnt, and John doesn’t mean it, doesn’t even think as his palm slides down and reels for the cold as it hangs limp between them; “I will fault you if you commit to this with eyes open, and then in so many days, or weeks, or months,” Sherlock’s voice cracks, and John hadn’t realised all the small fissures in his chest until the echo rattles through each of them in turn:_

_“I will fault you if you marvel at the fact you could not change me, before you walk away.”_

_John would be a liar, a goddamned liar if he could deny the way his breath sifts out from him, slow; the way he can’t quite seem to inhale for the way his world seems off-kilter, unhinged, because Sherlock has bared something with depths John can’t sound; Sherlock has offered him an intimacy and a plea and an echo of every doubt that weighs John’s body and of the two of them, of the pair it is unprecedented, it is almost unthinkable, except that it isn’t, because this is the evidence Sherlock has, this is the deduction he is able to make, and it is wrong, it is wrong, and John feels lightness, John feels freedom and joy rising now beside the fear, and it’s warmer, rising higher, and his palm runs up between them, slides across Sherlock’s stomach toward his chest, strokes the line of his neck and fits against his cheek to guide him down, to bring him close, to ease him in so John can press their lips together because between them both, a blogger and a genius, there are still no words for this._

_No words, but John knows the feelings that are far too strong to bear, and he can taste them, he can share their heat, and Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth knows them, reads them, and when Sherlock’s body heaves, and shakes just once before it loosens, boneless, and takes John at the waist to press them flush at the hips, John knows no words were needed._

_By the time they part, though, just this side of breathless, he tries to find a few that fit._

_“I may be the more experienced, generally, of the two of us,” John breathes, moves to duck his head, but Sherlock won’t have it; he places a thumb at John’s chin and eases him upwards again, locks their eyes with such intensity, as if he’s unsure of his own being without knowing its reflection across that gaze._

_And that’s fine, because John thinks it might be true both ways; John thinks that maybe he only knows himself fully, wholly, truly, in those eyes anymore, and to say the words that have been sticking in his throat now for too damned long, well, he needs to know and be known._

_See and be seen._

_“But I’ve never had this, Sherlock,” he breathes out, and cups Sherlock’s face in return. “I’ve never known it like this, I’ve never felt it like this, I’m just as at sea as you, more often than not, and I don’t expect anything of you, Sherlock,” he says in a rush; “I don’t expect anything save that you’re you.”_

_And John doesn’t mean to stop, doesn’t intend the pause, but Sherlock’s brow furrows, disbelieving, perhaps, and John can’t stand that, can’t allow any more doubt, not here, not when John’s heart’s racing for new reasons, for hopeful reasons that can more than just envision, but can see a future that seems uncanny and yet profoundly right, and John doesn’t have any words for that, so he leans them both forward to breathe the same air, foreheads leant together, and so long as he’s hoping, he hopes that’s enough._

_“Just be you, Sherlock,” he speaks between them. “Because you’re the one I’d step in front of a train for, you’re the one I’d take a bullet for,” he swallows, and fits a quick kiss, all pent up feeling, between the words as they tumble forth._

_“You’re the one I’d kill for, and die for,” and John has to breathe in deep to say the last, to confess the one truth bigger, more significant than all the rest._

_“And Sherlock,” he whispers, so close he can feel each syllable where it coalesces between his own mouth and Sherlock’s skin; “you’re the one I decided long before all of this that I would live for. You. All of you,” and he pulls back only just enough to see Sherlock’s eyes to look at him and only him as he says with all the conviction he’s ever held for anything, all the devotion he’s ever felt for anyone: “I love you.”_

_When Sherlock claims his lips, John feels every muscle in his body shudder, straight from the heart outward, and he knows, knows they’ll be alright. _

__________________________________________________________

“It’s been a while.”

John stares out the window; it’s raining, and that’s great, that’s just fucking great.

“Yes.” 

John doesn’t know what other word fits.

“I assume not much has changed,” she states simply, and for all that he knows she doesn’t know him, has never understood him, he likes that about her: her straightforwardness, her willingness to tell it like it is.

And despite everything, he wouldn’t be where he is, wouldn’t have walked the park that day because his godforsaken _blog_ had frustrated him to the point of genuine wrath—it all could have been so very different, if it hadn’t been for her.

And despite _everything_ , John wouldn’t trade a minute of it, wouldn’t sacrifice the warmth in his bed and his chest for never having to learn the pain of its absence, the sting of its lack.

“Not much that matters,” he offers, because lying is something he’s good at, and maybe lying to her will remind him how to lie to himself, how to survive until the axe falls and he can crumble properly, suffer as he’s meant to for the sin of risking, for the sin of losing, for the sin of engendering a trust he never deserved.

“We’ll just sit here, then,” Ella crosses her legs and sets aside her notepad; leans back and considers John pointedly, but not unkindly, and that’s all John needs. The quiet.

“Until you decide there’s something you need to say,” she adds, and John nearly loses it then and there, because _oh_.

Oh, the things he needs to _say_.

__________________________________________________________

_They’re safe, they’ve been safe—it’s been an hour and a half now that the danger’s passed and they’re both fine, both whole enough to be getting on with, if only just, and that’s the trouble, isn’t it?_

_**Only just.** _

_It hadn’t come out of nowhere, it wasn’t a matter of instinct, or a knee-jerk reaction. Their suspect, a jewel thief of very little imagination, had been waving the gun around for the majority of the confrontation, and John’s always known how he would respond in such a scenario._

_Shoot first, or take the bullet._

_John’s Sig, as it happened, was all but empty._

_So when the criminal snapped—and John could read it, could see the shift in those eyes before the tightening of that grip; when he’d cracked at the fault line and he’d taken aim and yes, it was horrible aim, and true, it may have missed entirely, but when that gun pointed at Sherlock, John didn’t hesitate._

_He couldn’t shoot. He’d take the bullet._

_And he did everything right. He ran, and when the gun fired he knew that the hands he’d got on Sherlock’s biceps would carry his momentum, would remove the man from harm’s way. It was perfect, and John didn’t even process the possibility of regret._

_Except John’s fists were clenched in thin air, and it was his biceps gripped as Sherlock used his motion against him and swapped their positions with a practiced grace, an expectant precision, and had John felt the jerk of Sherlock’s body when the bullet made contact, he’d shaken with the stuttering of his pulse as he registered what had happened, as he watched the dark stain start to spread through Sherlock’s coat and fuck, fuck—_

_But yes. They’re safe now, back in their flat; they’re safe, and yet John’s heart is still humming, still caught with a gun lined toward a far more precious heart, a far more sacred chest._

_He exhales sharply, runs his palms across his face as he tries to relax into the chair, his chair; tries not to stare at the wound, the dressing wrapped around it: just a graze._

_Only just._

_And John tries to relax, he does, but he can’t. His heart can’t calm, the tension can’t ease, because John may not have always been sure he was loved as dearly as he loves—there have been times when he’s doubted, each of them faithfully followed by moments that put him to shame for even thinking, for so much as daring to question, but this is something new, this is something entirely unprecedented and unacceptable because what John has always been sure of is that of the two of them, one life is worth more than the other._

_One life would always be worth more._

_So what John wants to know is what possessed his partner, what idiotic whim consumed the man he loves that could ever make him want to turn the tables. John wants to know what Sherlock sees in him—not the broken soldier, not anymore, but still merely a man, just a mediocre healer who’s good with a gun and who loves to the point of foolishness, maybe, but he’d never change it, he’d never trade it for anything; John wants to know what Sherlock really sees in him, what could possibly be enough to make him willing to risk everything, to give himself for John, just John._

_What John really wants to know, then, is why._

_“The idea of one’s life flashing before one’s eyes is a foolish notion,” Sherlock says apropos of nothing spoken and of everything unsaid; he speaks without feeling, but John’s good at this, now—he knows what a lack of feeling means when held against a lack of interest, a lack of care._

_He knows what depths sound like when they’re being masked._

_“But the idea of perspective, well,” Sherlock pauses, his head tilted, considering, and all John can see is the bandage on his upper arm, the lily white of it, the way the blood hasn’t even soaked through—perfect, safe, whole, and yet, John’s chest is still tight as a bowstring, John’s heart still hurts when it pumps for the burn, the sting of adrenaline, of honest terror, unadulterated fear._

_“I saw what you were planning to do,” Sherlock murmurs, avoids eye contact. “And when you moved, I knew your trajectory.”_

_Oh yes, Sherlock knew exactly. John has no doubt of that._

_“I have observed your reflexes time and again,” Sherlock continues; “I knew when you’d passed the point of course-correction.”_

_His monotone rings at all the wrong pitches, it is paced like a funeral march as it settles awkward, nauseating in John’s stomach; it lays foundations of fear that can’t, won’t hold the anger boiling in him, because Sherlock can’t do this to him, Sherlock’s not allowed to risk himself like that, to be reckless—it’s who Sherlock is but John can’t take it._

_“I couldn’t risk you.” And when John looks up, Sherlock’s staring at him, into him; Sherlock’s chest is heaving and this tone is overfull. “I won’t apologise for that, John. You cannot ask me to apologise for that.”_

_And no, John won’t ask. Because he’s a hypocrite, yes, but there are limits even he can’t press._

_There’s something John will ask, though. The question that’s burning, the question that’s churning at the centre of him that’s gone unanswered, because John still doesn’t know what makes him special, what makes him enough._

_“Why?”_

_And if John could freeze moments, single spaces inside time, this would be one of them: he’d freeze this second and study it and pick apart the intricacies of Sherlock’s expression as he breathes in sharp, as his eyes go wide in disbelief and his pupils constrict before they dilate, pained and bleeding the kind of infinite feeling John wasn’t sure existed, thought he might be deluding himself in believing he held it himself, felt it and knew it and offered it from his own heart just because it was so unfathomable but no, no: it’s there. It’s right there in front of him and he has it, he lives inside it and god, fuck, he—_

_Jesus Christ._

_He sees it, and it steals his breath for longer than he can stand, and nevertheless he doesn’t expect, can’t anticipate the words that come in answer._

_“Because I love you,” Sherlock tells him simply, emphatically, like the chemical composition of water or the speed of sound. “Because you unlocked the one door I never knew could open. Because you drew me in and taught me the secrets of the universe where they lived inside your skin and I will never, ever, want to be anywhere except by your side,” Sherlock sucks in breath again, harsh, and shivers so slightly, so finely, that John almost misses it before he whispers:_

_“Because you are every marvel and wonder and joy concentrated, saturated, refined and set loose and I cannot fathom what light is aside from you.”_

_And it’s all John can do, all any human could possibly do, really: he’s on his feet and across the room; he’s got Sherlock tucked against him, careful of his arm, of all of him, but fierce as he presses Sherlock tight against his chest, against the heart that’s not pounding so much anymore as it is overcome, overwhelmed at this, at them, at the way Sherlock clings to him in kind with both arms, good and bad in equal force so hard if has to hurt but it doesn’t stop him._

_It doesn’t stop him._

_“You must have been everywhere, I think,” Sherlock breathes against John’s neck. “You have always been everywhere and I never knew it, because the world can’t spin without you.”_

_John tilts Sherlock’s head upwards and kisses him with all the blood in his body, all the feeling in his limbs and the marrow in his bones and every firing synapse, every bit of him that needs Sherlock more than any of it, than anything he holds in him, than anything he is and God Almighty, Sherlock kisses back until John’s dizzy with it, until Sherlock clasps John’s arms as if to steady, as if to still the spin of the Earth itself._

_“I love you,” breathes against him, heavy, before drawing back just enough, just a bit so that he can stare John in the eye and make the words heard, make them tangible so that they’re felt. “That’s more than reason enough.”_

_And yes; John blinks, swallows—tastes Sherlock bright and bold against his tongue._

_So it is._

__

__________________________________________________________

 

To the man’s credit, Mycroft leaves him to his mourning; John doesn’t delude himself into thinking Mycroft’s eyes aren’t everywhere, but he needs space, he needs quiet, he needs the flat and the ability of his own mind to betray him, to fool him, to weave a fantasy every morning as he wakes, just before he actually comes to, where he can believe that Sherlock is breathing in the same vicinity, that Sherlock is with him still.

To the man’s credit, the day that one of Mycroft’s black cars stops outside 221 is the first day John spends far too much time cleaning his gun.

John leaves the flat so rarely these days that it can’t be just coincidence that the vehicle is waiting for him as he zips his jacket and closes the door behind him.

And Mycroft most assuredly doesn’t have surveillance in John’s room.

What prompts John to get into the car, in the end, is beyond his conscious understanding, but he thinks it has something to do with the fact that John, in his misery, in his heartbreak, has forgotten for a time that he’s not the only one who’s lost Sherlock Holmes.

John forgot, for a time, that he wasn’t alone.

The Diogenes never changes, and that’s a reassuring thing; John’s feet take him toward Mycroft’s private rooms without his wilful assent, and that’s how most things work these days; it isn’t new.

Mycroft looks about how John looks in the mirror every morning: haggard, with skin too thin and too white, eye bruised for exhaustion and lips thin against a constant panging that resonates out from the chest. 

John swallows, and feels unaccountably guilty, because this is his family, too, and they’re all hurting something dreadful, and there’s a spark in Mycroft’s eyes that John latches onto, feels a twin glint in his own catch fire against all logic, because together they can still delude themselves: as a pair, they can hope.

John takes a seat.

“I thought,” Mycroft says, and John holds back a flinch at the way his voice rasps, “it was high time we took a moment. Don’t you think?”

John just nods. He knows his own voice will come out worse.

Mycroft understands.

One of the staff comes around with two clochéed plates; sets one in front of John, one in front of Mycroft, who reaches for the cover and raises a brow—it doesn’t have much punch, really, in a face that drawn, above eyes that red, but John grabs for his and lifts to find—

Cheesecake. One immaculate slice of cheesecake.

“I’ve found,” Mycroft says softly, and the roughness is masked a bit, the quieter he speaks; “that this particular confection covers all manner of sins. Unfortunately,” and the softness of his words can’t mask the hitch in them, can’t erase the way his has to clear his throat before he finishes: “Unfortunately, I no longer have anyone to procure it on my behalf when—” Mycroft swallows, hard, and John finds himself just as close to tears, himself.

“When the worst occurs.”

John breathes in deep, closes his eyes hard against the wave of emotion that can’t, won’t die down, won’t fade, and he remembers too many nights leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder as he watched his partner, his lover, the best parts of him order the obscenely priced dessert from the arse end of nowhere for delivery to his older brother in times of dire need; he remembers it all too clearly for it to do anything but sear.

“I thought we both needed,” Mycroft whispers, low and yet steely: the best, John suspects, that he can manage.

“I thought we both needed something.”

And yeah. Perhaps they do.

John sinks a fork into the tip of his piece and wills his stomach not to heave as he takes a goddamned bite.

__________________________________________________________

_  
Wrong._

_This is _wrong_._

_John knows this is wrong because it doesn’t just hurt to breathe around, doesn’t just take up too much space in his chest. John knows that it’s wrong because he chokes on it, because it stirs the bile in him and makes him feel faint. John knows because it’s poison, because it’s lead and waste and longing and it sears; it’s acid and it decays, and it’s wrong dear god; it is _wrong_._

_It is the only thing they have left._

_“You are everything,” Sherlock whispers into him, moans in a way that hurts to hear, that’s a goddamned sin because no thing, no one, nothing should be permitted to endure the cause of such pain, that causes _him_ to ache that way._

_John should be damned to hell on the spot for this, he knows._

_“You are everything,” Sherlock exhales the words and John can feel them, can feel them shiver through his bones and John knows that Sherlock means it, knows that Sherlock meant it from the very first time he said it, though John had doubted them: he doesn’t doubt now, could never doubt beneath those eyes, held inside those trembling hands, those clammy palms._

_“And I know I don’t deserve you, but I hold you dearer than any construct, any concept, any potentiality in the cosmos.” Sherlock sucks in air, violently, and John follows it, gasps too, and he wonders if it hurts the same way in Sherlock’s chest, if it burns and thrashes and catches odd before it tears, if Sherlock’s bleeding on the inside too, and John’s hand is tight against Sherlock’s sternum taking in what he can, all he can, in the time that’s left; soothing what little he can manage, making what small amends he is able before an end he fears beyond all else._

_“And I will finish this,” Sherlock whispers, shaky but adamant: a flimsy surety that John will buy, will hold because it is something, at least it is _something_ and John needs all that he can get, John needs to know that this was right even as it feels so wrong, needs to know this will save him even as his own heart protests, he _needs_ —_

_“I will finish this for both of us, and then I will come home.”_

_Oh god. Oh god, this is wrong, John knows it; this is wrong, this is ruin, this will kill them both, this will shatter the glass of them, this will level their peaks, this will take them apart piece by piece and relish their demise—_

_“I love you,” John whispers into the hollow of his partner’s throat, and John can feel the tightness in his own throat, his lungs, the burn behind his eyes, the way the world begins to fall in, starts to shake at the foundations before the whole of it tumbles, unsustainable: irretrievable._

_Irredeemable._

_“And I, you,” Sherlock rumbles below John’s touch, against John’s whole body, and John wants the rhythm, the exact timbre of Sherlock voice through the flesh and the bone to seep into him so that he’ll be able to sleep at night, so that he won’t close his eye and wake without any part of his lover, bereft of his soul. “More than you can imagine.”_

_“No.” And John shakes his head, and Sherlock presses lips to his hair; Sherlock wraps arms around him tighter and presses him closer, impossibly close, and John doesn’t need imagination. Not for this. “No, I think I know it well.”_

_John feels the fabric below his cheek growing damp, senses moisture on his scalp as he presses his lips to the pulse at Sherlock’s neck, closes his eyes and breathes it all in. He feels his muscles tense, his world start to falter when he hears Mycroft’s footsteps, soft and careful as the man descends the stairs—out of character, the pace, the weight of it: a countdown, a clarion call._

_This is it._

_“John—” Sherlock starts, but John can’t hear it, can’t allow the words he fears are coming, the words he fears more than any other, perhaps, that might kill him where he stands and leave his heart beating nonetheless, leave the husk of him behind for the cruelty of it, for the horror of letting him live as no more than a shell._

_“Don’t say goodbye,” John hisses, desperate._

_“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock pulls back, looks John in the eye and draws John’s lips up to his own, kisses John soundly, the salt between their lips like a curse or a prayer; maybe both._

_“Be safe,” John mouths against Sherlock’s parted lips, memorises the shape and the pressure, the flavour and the give._

_“And you,” Sherlock murmurs, rumbles, and John doesn’t know how he’ll stand this, doesn’t comprehend how he’ll endure. “Please.” Sherlock kisses him one more time, hard and heartfelt and John can feel his blood rushing in the contact, in the press of flesh and the exchange of feeling and the promises, the vows they never made but didn’t have to._

_“ Please.” Sherlock begs him, voice wrecked, and then it’s over._

_Then he’s gone._

_John stumbles to the kitchen and braces his weight against the counter as he breathes, gasps, as the world spins around him because the sound of that door closing rings in his ears above his pulse, and John did this, John made this, and what if it’s useless, what if he’s wrong and what if he loses, what if it’s not just a risk but an outright sacrifice, what if he’s sent Sherlock to his grave and Sherlock went all but willingly because he trusted in John of all unsteady souls, of all unsure bets, oh god, oh god._

_Please. Please, let him live._  
__________________________________________________________

John jolts, doesn’t remember coming to bed, doesn’t remember climbing beneath the sheets that didn’t smell of _them_ anymore—vaguely remembers burying his face in Sherlock’s pillow and searching, praying for a strand of his hair, for some _piece_ of him lodged against the fabric beneath the case, saved from the wash, from time, from inevitability; remembers crying, recalls the cloying stick of the linens to his cheek.

He breathes out, heavy, and asks for one last miracle, because last time: last time, he’d lied.

_Stop this. Let it end. I can’t, I’m not—let it end._

He shudders on the inhale, it hurts, and it’s cold, it’s so cold; he sniffles against the chill and something bigger, something deeper.

He almost misses the noise, the shuffling from far away, for the way he can barely swallow down the sobs that live, now, lodged forever in his throat.

He almost misses it. But not quite.

And John may be just this side of useless, John may be broken and heartsick and maybe he cleaned the gun again this morning, and once more this afternoon; maybe he’d loaded it, just in case—John may be down, and he might be flirting with out just as surely, but he’s a soldier.

He’s a soldier, and he’s not dead yet.

And maybe there’s a reason there are bullets in his gun, tonight.

John’s near silent as he eases the bedroom door open just enough to slip through, not enough to creak; he pads, ghostlike through the flat; stops as he hears footsteps—definitely footsteps, barely even trying to mask themselves; lots of pauses between one, then two, then three and one again, up the stairs in uneven intervals, and is it common knowledge that John’s a mess, so much that the petty criminals of London think they can get the drop on him? Because that’s what it has to be, John figures that straight away: not because there’s no greater threat to his life on any given night, but because anyone of the calibre he should be fearing would be smarter, would be more careful, regardless of what they’d heard of their target’s current mental state.

John’s hand tightens on the grip of his gun; the footsteps settle at the top and John hears a muffled breath heaved through the door—can’t make out much else because for all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he’s still not quite in the moment, still isn’t all there: swallow still takes effort, his throat’s still thick, and no matter how amateur his robber is, John’s honestly not entirely sure he’ll come out of this unscathed.

He doesn’t dwell on whether or not he wants to.

There’s breathing, then, from beyond the door and from John’s own overtaxed lungs, and it rustles, it echoes for a long moment, and then another, and John’s poised, as best he can be, ready to strike or shoot as necessary, and it’s a whim, it’s a decision he doesn’t make so much as simply executes when he throws the door open, lifts the gun level before his arms drops, just as quick; before his jaw drops, and the wasted excuse for a heart in his chest stops dead, which is fine, which is absolutely fine, because he doesn’t need it.

He doesn’t need it, because his heart’s standing right in front of him, and John doesn’t quite remember how to breathe in the face of that skin, too pale; that body, too thin; those eyes, bloodshot and sunken and fever-bright, but those lungs, filling; that chest, rising, and John doesn’t bother wondering if it’s real, if it’s a dream.

John’s heart is beating in the only chest that matters, that ever did.

“Oh god.”

And John doesn’t know if his voice works; just know his lips were made to form the shape of that one word, that one name.

“Sherlock.”


	18. Never Doubt Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It might be a nightmare, or a fantasy, or a fake.
> 
> Except Sherlock’s own heart is racing, and John can taste it between his lips where they rest, unmoving, each of his exhales glistening on the harsh expansion of the carotid pulse and that is real.
> 
> John believes; John has to believe that is _real_.

John won’t pretend he isn’t transfixed for a moment, for a long string of moments; John won’t pretend he doesn’t feel light-headed with the shortness of his breath, with the pounding of his pulse as he shakes with it, just a little as he stares, as he meets those sky-storm eyes and remembers all at once what it feels like to fall into them, to surrender to them and to hold sway over them simultaneously; it’s fused in every cell of him and he doesn’t know if the world is ending or beginning, if he’s built to withstand the torrent, the wave of relief that rides the crests of a residual fear he can’t let go of, not just yet—he doesn’t know if his bones can withstand it, if his heart’s strong enough. 

Sherlock blinks, and John’s certain that it isn’t, that _he_ isn’t, that he’ll crumble: that they’ll fall. 

Sherlock gasps, exhales with a shudder, and John feels it, holds it, breathes it in: tangible. 

True.

“John,” he whispers, and it’s broken, feeble, and so full of pain, and maybe illusions can fracture, and dreams can be weak, but pain, _pain_ : that is real. That is undeniable. 

Pain like that is flesh and blood, and it cuts John in kind, but fuck, _fuck_ , it’s _real_ : it’s a breath and a word John thought he’d lost forever, a voice he feared he’d never know again outside his own mind, outside his own heartbreak—it’s there, and John could move mountains.

John could part seas.

His limbs tingle with it, his breath hitches, and he reaches, but Sherlock’s too far; Sherlock’s too far, and there’s terror in those eyes and Sherlock’s own arm twitches, shivers with the aborted motion of meeting John’s hand, of grasping and holding and _knowing_ that kills something John thought was already dead in his chest, and John swallows a sob and steps forward.

Sherlock beats him to it. 

The tongue in John’s mouth tastes familiar, like the wind at his grandfather’s farm in the Highlands but warmer, rougher, _more_ , and the pulse in John’s throat shivers, trills as Sherlock’s lips—dry, cracked but full, needing—press at strange angles, in desperate lines against John’s mouth. John’s hands are unsteady, trembling in the face of this: a revelation and an impossibility more than any war wound or lost cause beneath his scalpel ever was, deeper and bolder and more pervasive, more consuming and it hurts, it aches in his chest and his ribs protest for the force of it, its expansive weight, and as Sherlock holds to him, holds him upright and licks, swallows the hysterical sobs that keep rising, that keep meaning to come out: as Sherlock is near and warm and solid against him, John thinks he might fall into it and lose all that he is, he thinks he might die for it, he thinks there isn’t enough oxygen or hydrogen or anything, he thinks there’s too much and _Jesus_ —

“Shh, John,” Sherlock rumbles against him, rubs quick, firms against John’s back and John can hear the rush of air, the rush of blood keenly against his ear where he presses into Sherlock’s chest, except he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t realised how wet Sherlock’s shirt was beneath his cheek, how thick his throat was, how raw every surface, every nerve was proving as John spent all his energy simply breathing, simply knowing and feeling and relishing the touch of Sherlock, the care in his hands on John’s body, the firmness of his caress and the meaning, the wanting and the giving and the strength that couldn’t come from something broken, wouldn’t show in something that couldn’t be fixed.

John’s lungs shudder as he breathes in, as he leans and reaches to settle, to rest against Sherlock’s shoulder where he’s cradled, where he’s eased, as he shakes with all these months, all this time, all the hurt and the fear and all the loss he’d refused to process, all the thoughts of _never again_ and the idle wonderings whether his heart would eventually just give out for the strain of it, when it would be done: John cracks, fractures under the momentum, the harsh push of sweet improbability as it manifests and gifts itself into his arms because there is Sherlock, there is the better half of John’s whole world, the pulsing in his chest and the fire in his veins and John had fought reality so long that it’s not even slightly unlikely that this is a dream, that this is simply the more blessed, the more cruel of his visions, hallucinations in the early waking hours that still come, now and again, that test his resolve, the strength of what he’s feared were delusions and yet he’d believed, he’d go into the ground believing in the man he loved, the man he would always love, and it might be a nightmare, or a fantasy, or a fake.

Except Sherlock’s own heart is racing, and John can taste it between his lips where they rest, unmoving, each of his exhales glistening on the harsh expansion of the carotid pulse and that is real.

John believes; John has to believe that is _real_.

And Sherlock’s hand on his back, on his cheeks brushing away every third tear, not quick enough to catch them all as the release of all that terror proves far too immense and overcomes him, shakes John to the marrow and rends him, tears him in two and Sherlock presses him closer, keeps the halves of him from bleeding out and stitches them with soothing words, nonsense, and John could never have imagined that, John could never have dreamt how it would feel to be brought back to life, for the blood in his veins to sing again after all that silence.

John couldn’t have imagined _this_.

The feeling still swims in him, threatens to consume but he stays it, Sherlock stays it, and when John can breathe again without gasping, without more fresh tears falling in an instant than Sherlock can sweep away, John reaches, John twines their fingers together and brings Sherlock’s knuckles to his mouth and kisses his hand, lets his tears fall there and breathes against those fingers, lets them stretch to clasp and hold and cradle his cheek, his face, as Sherlock watches him, too much swirling in those eyes for John to see, just now, just yet, not through his own tears but it’s real, it’s real, it’s _real_.

John smells the blood before his vision clears to see it.

“Sherlock,” he breathes out, blinks and his heart’s in his throat as the adrenaline spikes, as the fear returns because no, no, there’s blood on Sherlock’s wrists, his fingers, the skin of his arm all the way down—smeared, dried, but still very _red_ and John didn’t just get Sherlock back to lose him, no, he didn’t, he _didn’t_ —

“It’s not mine,” Sherlock stops him, reads his concern quickly before he shrugs. 

“I,” he swallows hard; “I don’t think it’s mine.”

John blinks, and feels all the tumult in him steady, a short reprieve as he straightens, as his eyes uncloud and he takes in Sherlock’s frame: weak but not failing, thin but not frail, and oh, those eyes, so bright, the colour in them so sharp, so strong, and John’s breathless for one instant, and half the next, before he speaks:

“You need feeding.”

Sherlock, though, he shakes his head. “I don’t think,” his eyes get lost beyond John, stare through him. “I don’t think I could—”

“Right,” John nods, understands, because his own world feels off-axis, his stomach’s off, and Sherlock’s bound to be worse. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then, yeah?”

And Sherlock, if he hesitates, takes less than a moment before he breathes out and seems to shrink just a tad through the exhale; takes John’s hand and allows himself to be led to the bath, and if John’s grip on him is so tight as to be painful, he says nothing.

The touch, though; the grip remains. 

_________________________________________

 

The water’s scalding, but John barely feels it; Sherlock is shaking, just a little, just enough that it’s only John who would notice and he does, of course he does and he knows it’s not for the cold and yet it doesn’t matter, nothing matters save seeing, nothing means a damned thing outside of knowing for himself that Sherlock is safe and whole and as unharmed as possible; nothing else matters when it comes to him, to them.

Oh god, _them_. Them, together, one with the other once more.

John feels lightheaded, John feels nauseated, John feels just this side of fucking _blissful_.

A strangled sound makes itself known, echoes through the bath and John snaps into action, his hands on Sherlock’s skin, soaping, rubbing away the dark streaks, the red with as much force as he can stomach, as much care as he can bear, one by one from the cuticles of his nails to the crooks of his elbows and up, each inch of fair, unblemished skin revealed drawing the hard lines of his muscles in softer tones, each freckle that comes clean without fresh blood easing in the beat of his heart, each healing bruise and scabbing scrape and even the lines of stitches, inexpert, and the bullet holes—not many, but _too_ many: when he meets them and sees them pink, no warmer than the skin surrounding, the reality of it blossoms full inside his lungs like fresh air and heat. Sherlock’s hair is a mess at the roots, matted and tousled and John can’t even get to the skin to see, can’t part the follicles to check for abrasions, to search for contusions, any hint of head trauma—he reaches for the shampoo, and he doesn’t swallow a sob, he _doesn’t_ when he realises that it’s Sherlock’s brand, Sherlock’s scent that he’s been using to ease the absence, and if his fingers are that much more careful, more delicate in washing away the grime, of rinsing away the worst of the world on Sherlock’s body, well, John’s tired, and his heart’s overfull, and that his hands are steady at all in taking stock of his lover is would be considered a miracle on any other night, save this one.

Save this night, with Sherlock in front of him. With Sherlock alive, and here, and _his_.

John’s pulse calms as Sherlock’s skin washes clean, and he takes to examining each mark, each wound in various stages of healing, from days to months, with his mouth, with his lips and his tongue and Sherlock’s hands are tight against the rounds of John’s shoulders, his fingertips digging hard, the nail biting at John’s skin deliciously, beautifully, as John trails, makes certain of every breach in that flesh, ensures it’s fine, all fine, and when he’s satisfied he goes again, once more, for good measure, mouthing at Sherlock’s wet body and running palms up and down his side as Sherlock moans, as Sherlock leans into the touch with ever-lessening hesitation, and John breathes against Sherlock’s neck for long moments, when he’s done, when he settles for checking Sherlock’s pulse one more time: elevated, still, but steady. 

John stays still, breathes there, and counts it for one minute, for two.

Three, and his own heart trips over the relief that suffuses him, that takes him over and becomes his skin, his cells: when he looks up and smiles wearily, but so _real_ at the man he loves, he knows there’s no mistaking it in his face, bright in eyes that sting—he knows that Sherlock sees it for the way his own eyes widen, for the way his breath catches and he stills.

He stills, almost terrified, and something shifts between them, John can feel it, and he thinks perhaps he read everything wrong, perhaps he missed a mortal wound, maybe he’s not wanted, or perhaps it’s to do with the tension that still lives in Sherlock’s muscles, his bones, that John thought was simply shock, simply the lingering pall of _everything_ , except no, maybe not.

Sherlock reads the relief in him, of that John is sure, and while John thought he knew Sherlock better than anyone, better than he knew himself, he can’t be certain, now, of what he sees inside those eyes, because what he thinks he reads makes so little sense, makes too much sense, and hurts too much to dwell on.

John thinks he sees wanting. John thinks he sees agony. John thinks he sees suspicion, and more than anything else, John thinks he sees fear.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, but in truth, it’s not even that. It’s the breath that escapes unlooked for from a punch to the gut, when the lungs collapse in and forget how to fill, and it hits John all wrong in the hearing, the feeling, the utter absences of motion and exhalation between them, the too-loud patter of the shower as it spurts disrhythmic; off-kilter.

“Oh god,” and John’s roaming, worshipping hands lose momentum, because Sherlock’s words are strangled, and John fingertips trail to rest at his hips and even there, John can feel the way that Sherlock’s shaking, gasping, breaking. “ _John_.”

“Sherlock?” John curses the smallness of his voice, but only until he sees how Sherlock flinches away from it, cringes even as his eyes widen, as he looks so desperate for something he maybe caught a glimpse of, in passing, and can’t determine whether it was a dream.

Whatever it is, whatever it was, John will find it. John will make it, or forge it, or steal it outright if it mends whatever seems so frayed in his lover, so jagged that it’s making the fit of them, the whole of them almost painful for him, it seems: almost frightening. 

“John,” Sherlock pants, the word tight, the tension tangible. “You’re,” and the rattle, the ache of the inhale Sherlock tries to draw but trips over scratches in John’s veins, and oh, no, this can’t stand. “John, you’re—” 

“Love, what is it?” John soothes, because it’s tearing him to see it, to hear it, and he’ll move mountains, he’ll break his own bones to make put it right, to make it stop. “What’s wrong?”

“Please, John,” Sherlock just shakes his head, and the sobs, the wracking, horrible sobs that underlay his words, that weave in the worst sort of wefts to make a voice John barely knows, can barely stand: it’s too much, it’s too much when Sherlock moans, hitching and drenched with a heartache that John knows, John knows like a thumbprint and a pulse point and that’s over now, it’s over but it still hurts to think of, hurts so badly that John isn’t sure how he survived it, isn’t sure his knees will hold, won’t buckle to hear it, to know it again, and not in his partner, his lover, his life, no, not there, not in Sherlock.

No.

“Oh god,” Sherlock moans it: “please.”

“Anything, love,” John pleads in return, rubs circles around the jut of Sherlock’s hip to try and ground him, to ground them both, because John’s been faltering, John’s been swaying and remembering the barrel of his gun in too great a detail; John’s been breathless and his chest’s felt tight and he’s been so scared, so riddled with guilt and terror at what it means to have killed yourself in killing the other half of your soul, at what it feels like to die in another’s body because you love too much, and it’s over, it’s over and they _won_ god _damnit_ and if they managed that, they can manage anything, and the earth could just as well be collapsing in upon itself and John would stop it, John would fix it.

John will fix this.

“What hurts?” he begs, and it comes out soft, too soft for all the will that lies behind it. “What can I do?”

But Sherlock doesn’t hear a word of it as he shivers, as John pulls him as close as he possibly can without causing any flinching, without merging their flesh; Sherlock has gone too far, now, is too lost, but John knows the heart of the man in his arms. John knows how Sherlock keened, how he ached and cracked and came apart at the edges of himself when they started this, when they fell against one another and had to trust in order to stay afloat until the world was righted once more, had to cling if they were ever going to stand again. John remembers Sherlock raging, Sherlock wrathful, Sherlock stubborn and blinded and foolish, terrified and frantic, unrecognisable to his own self and John knows what it means to hold someone as they drift and await remaking, knows what it is to use his own hand to hold the mould. John knows what it means to not just have given his own heart to Sherlock Holmes but to have accepted a whole one in kind, and he knows that if Sherlock is here with him, if he warm despite the trembling in his arms, beneath his hands, well.

If Sherlock’s come back to him, there’s not a force in the universe that can wedge between them without failing, without relenting.

“He promised, John, he promised you’d be real,” Sherlock whispers, and John is struck, frozen by the way the water trails down Sherlock’s cheeks, his lips; the way he can tell it just by looking from the lines of feeling, the marks of tears.

“And he was real, I think, I am, I’m,” and Sherlock shivers against John’s body, the catch of wet flesh, of bones too close to the skin like benediction and damnation and John reels with it, can’t catch his breath as Sherlock clings to him, almost reluctant, like he needs but won’t, _can’t_ get to close, not yet.

“I’m not sure, but I believed him, John. The scar was real, it made sense and yet, I could have, I know,” Sherlock gasps, and John can’t help but reach, can’t help but cradle his jaw and ease Sherlock’s face up, up, level with his own to await those eyes, patient and careful and willing to outlast eternity until Sherlock is ready. Until he can see the heart he holds dear in those glassy irises, those depthless pools. 

“I know how much time should have passed if it were real and I know what the healing process would look like, I know the timeline, I’ve seen it, though not on his skin, not like that, not wrenching, not so that I felt ill and yet comforted, the wrench of it at the very core of me, but I could have seen it, just within my own mind, could have seen and felt and known without knowing. I’ve seen more, seen better and worse, and he promised, he said,” and Sherlock’s chest is heaving but he’s taking in no air, and John feels dizzy with it, he steadies his palms now above Sherlock’s lungs and prays the contact will speak to something deeper than the mind that’s whirling, the heart that’s seizing: will calm and keep something more vital, more crucial than anything so physical, anything so scared.

“He promised, he promised that you were here, that you’d always been here and always would be, that you were waiting and you were safe and it wasn't too late, I didn't fail, because god, John,” and that’s when Sherlock looks, that’s when Sherlock raises those eyes and destroys John more thoroughly than any blow, than any wound, because John loves Sherlock Holmes with everything he is and most of what he isn’t, and he’s never seen a soul still living that hurts so bad as the shards that shine in Sherlock’s gaze, that cut through John’s chest like barbed wire, catching and ripping and raw.

John swallows hard around the sob that rises in him; Sherlock’s throat trembles around it and it bleeds into his words, makes them all the more wretched, all the more hopeless to bear:

“I've watched you die so many times,” Sherlock wrenches out, hoarse. “I’ve watched the bullet pierce your skull and I've watched you marry, I've watched you become a father, I've watched you scorn me and forget me, I've watched you bleed on the carpet, I've watched you tortured, dismembered, I've felt your heart stop beating beneath my hands, I've watched it freeze inside your open ribs on the worst of nights, and John, he promised and I trusted him because I need you, I won't survive it if it isn't you, if this isn't—”

“I’m afraid,” and John can feel it in the tumult of Sherlock’s heart against his palm, the massage of it heavy, painful, stuck in John throat by osmosis, by the sheer overlap of being between them. 

“John,” Sherlock chokes; “I have found you, I have touched you, I have tasted and known you against me so many times only to wake, only to have it claw at me until I couldn’t stand, until I couldn’t think, until feeling at all was impossible and I trusted him, and I had no choice. I had no choice, because I could not bear—” 

And John can’t stand it, he can’t stand to see Sherlock’s body, to hear Sherlock’s mind, to touch Sherlock’s chest in such turmoil, and he barely thinks before his hands are framing Sherlock’s face, are cupped against his cheeks and Sherlock’s eyes are upon him, salt-rimmed and drowning and red.

“Not again, John,” he begs, and John strokes at his skin like a mantra, like a prayer, and damn it all if John doesn’t come alive a little, if something doesn’t spark through John’s bones when Sherlock leans, not quite willingly, but all too surely into his touch, and breathes. 

“I could not see you only to find you a fantasy,” Sherlock tears the words, secret, from the flesh of his throat and John can almost feel the way they bleed. “I cannot have you if this isn’t, if you’re not—” 

John doesn’t wait for hesitation to creep in. He presses his mouth to Sherlock’s and kisses him light, but firm, and licks his wounds from the inside, for all the hurting that Sherlock can’t tend himself, and Sherlock welcomes him, resists him less and less, and fears the touch of him in receding shades as John’s tongue roams his mouth, and John’s hands grip his jaw, because John knows what this is, because he felt it, he’s still fighting the aftershocks of its impact; John knows what this is because Sherlock’s hands on him aren’t reluctant, aren’t fearful so much as clinging, desperate, and so John knows. John knows before Sherlock breathes it into his mouth:

“Real.”

And John pulls back enough to see the need of it all brimming at the lashes, swimming deep in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I need you to be real, please,” Sherlock breathes out, watching John for the longest of moments, wrecked and yet still crashing, still breaking right in front of him, and before John can grasp him, right his course and keep him from ruin, Sherlock’s dropped his head to John’s chest, his forehead against the hollow of John’s throat, his skin too hot, too wet even for the shower still around them, persistent, torrential: needles against John’s skin as he watches Sherlock tremble, as he aches for the man he clutches tight to his body, close to his heart.

“Please John,” Sherlock whispers, shuddering, into John’s chest: “please be real, I need you,” and his voice catches, hitches and tears on something sharp as John’s arms tighten around him, as he falls into John’s frame and John feels the heat, the tears streaming down his sternum and god, oh god, Sherlock is shaking in his embrace and Sherlock is sobbing and it’s breaking John but it’s real, so godawfully, gorgeously real that John knows, he _knows_ it’s not all in his head. 

And that’s all he needs to prove to the man in his arms—that’s all Sherlock needs to fall with him, into him, and that’s what they know, the keeping, the holding of one another and the saving, the shielding, the preservation of minds and hearts and the very _being_ that seeps out from what they are.

It _is_ real, and he just has to make Sherlock _see_.

“I need the taste of your skin and the scent of sleep against your neck and I need your third sip of tea on the tip of your tongue, I need,” Sherlock gasps, sobs against John’s clavicle. “I need the cadence of your breath and I need your plasma, the cells of your blood and its pressure in your veins, I need, I need,” and the tremors that roar through Sherlock’s body could tear cities apart, the spasms hateful and wretched and fierce as Sherlock weeps into him, bereft and wanting: 

“Be _real_.”

And John knows the mind of this man, knows it like he knows the texture of the skin beneath his hands, the heart against his chest: John knows that Sherlock needs proof that is less tangible and more true—Sherlock needs something he’s never known but that he cannot refute, a secret untold where there are none, because so little is unknown between them, now, so little left hidden, so much made sacred in the melding and the sharing: the release.

Sherlock needs something small, that means everything. John knows.

John knows.

“I was going to say Iraq.”

Sherlock freezes, tenses, and while he doesn’t look up John knows that his attention is focused upon the head of a pin, upon the words and what will come; John knows that Sherlock is listening to every hitch of his breath and pump of his heart through the skin for clues, is observing through the flesh and John inhales deep, kisses the crown of Sherlock’s head and prays, prays that this is what will matter, this is what will work, this is what is necessary—that this will save them both from drowning after drowning’s no longer necessary; will save them now, after the danger’s passed.

“You were mad,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s limp curls, mouths the drops of water clinging to the scalp. “You were improbable and strange and you didn’t fit anywhere but you made everywhere fit you, you shifted that room like you’ve shifted the poles of the earth to hold you, and you were out of place just as you were in the only place you could ever be and I didn’t know how to process you.”

The feel of Sherlock’s body trembling against John had been heartbreaking; the feel of him still—so very still, now—is almost worse.

“Anyone else,” John forces out, his chest tight as he eases Sherlock up, cups at hand to that pale cheek and coaxes, lifts until they’re lined to look, to see, except Sherlock’s eye are downcast, still, and that hurts, too; that _hurts_ , and it’s a trial when John breathes out: “With anyone else, I would have lied. But you...” John trails, and Christ, but it’s difficult to swallow.

“For reasons I can’t describe,” John starts, staring at Sherlock’s downcast eyes, studying his lashes, the play of water and light against his face, “to this day I can’t put a finger on it, but from the very first I couldn’t lie to you. I could only,” and John’s voice catches, the words grow thick as Sherlock meets his eyes, his gaze more open than perhaps it’s ever been as John exhales: “marvel.”

And John does, can’t know what it is that breaks through, that touches that keening, yearning thing in Sherlock just as surely as it slips inside his own chest: John’s not sure if it’s the love he’d never been able, had long since stopped wanting to hide in his own eyes, or the earnest truth in his words, or something softer, unstated—John doesn’t know, but when Sherlock’s breath catches this time, and his eyes slip closed as he tucks against John, small and enveloped inside John’s hold, the tension gone from his bones, John knows that whatever it was, it’s worked, and the fact that Sherlock is against him and they’re both whole hits him, once more, as being just this side of unbelievable, just short of something he’d ever deserved and yet he’ll be grateful for it, he’ll give the beating heart from his chest to keep it, if he has to. 

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock breathes against his chin, his cheek, his mouth as he kisses John with a kind of passion that John has almost forgot existed in this impossible man, had nearly forgot he’d known except his body remembers it, his body responds, eager and hopeful and light as he moves, presses every available inch against Sherlock’s body and Sherlock stands tall once more, as Sherlock draws John to him instead and whispers, his hands on John’s face, John’s hips, his lips soft and his eyes so wide: “My John.”

For his own part, John can’t help but whimper, can’t help but deflate and take in and simply absorb all that Sherlock is, all that they are and that’s been returned to them, that they can reclaim and renew and live wholly in a way they hadn’t before, without knowing it: back when they’d suspected, but never quite known what it was to lose, to miss, to grieve.

John’s hands press hard, palm open and firm against Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his fingers reading, memorising once more the dips of each vertebrae, the curve of that spine because he’d known it, he’d thought himself an expert and yet then he’d doubted his own recollections, his own mind: he’d feared forgetting in the cold of their bed, in the dark.

John never wants to doubt again.

“We did it,” Sherlock whispers into the shell of John’s ear, sending him shivering. “It’s over,” Sherlock nuzzles at the line of his jaw and breaths out: “you’re _safe_.”

“ _You_ did it,” John insists, pulling back and meeting his eyes, because for however badly John was hurting he can see it, he knows it just by looking, is certain after _feeling_ that whatever pain he knew, Sherlock had it worse and yet he persevered, he pushed through, he came _home_. “We’re _all_ safe.”

Sherlock shakes his head, drops a swift kiss to John’s lips before he frames John’s face in his hand and holds him close, eyes piercing and yet so warm. “They’d have found me,” Sherlock rasps, but his expression is sure. “They’d have killed me the first week, the first day, if I hadn’t had something to fight for,” and his voice drops low as he caresses the lines of John’s cheekbones with his thumbs: “someone to survive for.”

John thinks his heart’s forgotten what it feels like to be mended, because the sensation’s much like breaking, except it burns.

“Come here,” John breathes, and Sherlock doesn’t need to be told, really; he’s there, he’s already there.

“God,” Sherlock mouths against John’s skin, and it’s glorious, it’s beautiful, it _aches_ , “oh god.”

He pulls back, and John doesn’t pretend he doesn’t whimper, doesn’t move to follow until he sees the wonder, the remaking in Sherlock’s eyes:

“You are real,” Sherlock breathes out, and it shakes inside John’s pulse for an instant before he draws Sherlock to him, presses them together once more and _holds_.

“So real, love,” John promises, and he’d never meant anything more than when he says, vows: “I won’t ever let you doubt it again.”

_________________________________________

John lets himself be still, lets himself pause at the image, the reality of Sherlock folding himself into their bed, _their_ bed: John lets himself watch that lithe frame stretch, stray beads of water still glistening on errant spanses of flesh, those damp curls splaying wild on the linens, on the pillow John’s breathed against, aching for it to smell like Sherlock just a little, just for one more day, and he can’t help himself, now, no—he can’t help it, he has to lean, has to move into that body and rest a hand on that bare chest as it rises, has to lift a fingertip to trace Sherlock’s mouth as finally, _finally_ it manages to curl at the corners, and the swell of those lips lifts and there’s a grin, a _grin_ , goddamnit, the hint of one proceeded by the whole of one and John didn’t realise he was holding his breath until he lets it out, lets the world out with it and can’t help himself—rolls into Sherlock’s heat and covers Sherlock’s body with his own, captures those smiling lips against his mouth.   
And John should have guessed it, should have known that Sherlock was still hurting so before, because this kiss is nothing like the one at the door, or even the ones they’d shared beneath the shower spray: this is all feeling and heat, all need and desire at the level of their genes, in the makeup of their very bodies, who and what they are—this is flayed-open chests and hearts because they want too bad, too much, pressing, bleeding out and in and it doesn’t matter, none of it matters because John can taste the sweet tang of Sherlock, and only Sherlock, buried and mingled under nicotine and river water, under iron and sour milk, he can taste his lover, strong and true, and John works for it, aches for it, and his tongue laps along Sherlock’s teeth, the roof of his mouth and Sherlock returns the favor, finding something necessary in John’s kiss just the same as their hands roam, as their chests heave and they touch, they reacquaint with what they’d feared lost and reaffirm what they’ve always known: that to lose would have meant ruin, would have meant two deaths in one and they’re still breathing, still here.

Still.

When Sherlock pulls away, just a bit, John moves to follow, fights a whine in his throat, but Sherlock places a palm against John’s chest to stay him and simply stares, simply looks at John and takes in every detail of his face, of whatever expression is there, is flooding him, showing how dizzy he is, how breathless this makes him, how grateful he is, so much so that it’s coming out his pores, he’s certain. Sherlock, though: Sherlock simply touches, simply strokes his cheek, up and down, and watches him, gazes at him, into him, and cradles, caresses something deep in John that makes him feel wanted, makes him feel cherished, and oh, John doesn’t think he deserves this, not after everything, but it’s as if Sherlock hears those thoughts because his head’s shaking, and there’s more love in those eyes than John ever thought he’d see, let alone know.

So John’s tingling, buzzing, reeling in a kind of heat he can’t quantify or describe, never wants to let go of when Sherlock leans, maintains eye-contact as long as he can through those lashes, grates against the sky of those eyes of his and John shudders once the gaze breaks, not for the loss so much as Sherlock’s lips on John’s neck, his chest, soft kisses, not teasing so much as laving across John’s nipples, down the centre of his torso and down, nuzzling the nest of hair at John’s groin and dragging a slow tongue, breathing deep of the scent there as John starts to tremble because it’s arousing, and he’s missed this.

It is intimate in ways John’s never known before, and John’s needed this to _breathe_. 

When Sherlock runs the tip of his nose along the length of John’s cock, the world goes still save for the vibrations that ring through John’s body, through John’s perception of reality and the very weave of sheets scrunched beneath him; when Sherlock mouths against the tight draw of his balls with nothing less than reverence John thinks his arteries may have twisted, may have kinked somewhere for the pressure in him, for the build of it against all odds. When Sherlock steadies the tip of John’s length against the rough of his tastebuds and rolls his tongue around the girth of John’s hardness, John’s certain that he’ll die, he’ll give out and it will be a joy and a goddamned shame because this is perfect and yet there’s so much _more_ and John knows it; there is so much still to be done and of all people, John knows it. John’s thought of nothing else for far too long.

Sherlock’s tongue abandons John’s cock with a drag of his tongue against John’s slit before he breathes, hot against the stretch of skin between John’s thighs and back, back and John’s shaking when Sherlock’s open mouth matches the ring of John’s opening, wet and sinfully hot as Sherlock lingers, licks his own fingers before kissing back towards John’s straining length, before teasing the slick lengths of each digit past one knuckle, past two.

It’s then; it’s _then_ that John loses his concept of time and truth and surrenders, because this, _this_.

This is just about everything.

Sherlock doesn’t guide John’s hardness into his mouth, massages instead at John’s thighs while he follows John’s swollen cock fits his lips around the glans and sucks until John moans, until John whimpers and Sherlock goes deeper, takes John in, centimetre by painful centimetre, twirling that tongue like it’s a privilege, lavishing the kind of attention on John’s insistent need until John’s almost overwhelmed, almost baffled by it when the moment comes—every lick closer, every infinitesimal slip along the length of him when Sherlock pulls off, breathes cool against the hot flesh so that it tingles cool and then he presses lips, gentle and almost stretched beyond their capacity for belief, just wanting to remind the both of them of something unnamable: when Sherlock kisses against the hardness, against the tense pull of his sac, against the soft flesh shivering at either side of him, John understands.

John understands perfectly, and his heart swells like he’s never known it, never guessed he could survive and his hands comb, catch in Sherlock’s curls, stroking and pulling and showing Sherlock as much as he can, as well as he can, that he gets it, that he feels it just as strong.

Sherlock dips his chin and takes him in, finally, in a single swallow, sucks hard once, twice and John can feel it building, can see the brightness behind his eyes and just as John thinks he can’t stand it, can’t possibly take more, Sherlock stills, John full in his mouth as Sherlock brushes maddeningly, desperately, like a breath, as he stretches John wide and teases wretched, wanton against John’s prostate so that John shudders with a force he thinks could break them both, and Sherlock smiles, grins and almost purrs around John’s length as he murmurs his approval as John reaction, John’s obvious pleasure: John twitches, starts to shake, and it doesn’t stop when Sherlocks fingers slip free, when Sherlock’s mouth draws back and leaves John straining, needing, so close.

As Sherlock runs sure hands along John’s thighs, cups his knees as he slides up, presses his own hardness against John’s skin, the heat of it so tight, and John longs for it as Sherlock aligns their bodies, as Sherlock teases John’s entrance before he sinks down, and the breath leaves John instantly, immediate, just to be replaced with something sweeter, something more.

“Christ,” John can’t help but moan as Sherlock fills him because this, this is something John never imagined was possible until he felt it for the first time, until he’d become entirely dependent upon the feel of this, upon the press of Sherlock’s lips to his own as he thrusts, his tongue in John’s mouth taking a counter-rhythm to his hips so that John’s never lacking, never needing for Sherlock’s presence, Sherlock’s warmth inside his own, and they both need this, John knows: after anything, in the face of all that’s come and gone, they need this, surrender and recompense and the affirmation that through everything, they remain and they thrive and by god, they love.

Fuck _all_ , but they _love_.

“John,” Sherlock breathes against him, kisses the centre of John’s chest as he thrusts, as he reaches fingers down to lilt against John erection, almost idly as Sherlock rocks into him, the friction building to unbearable as Sherlock mouths at John’s neck. “You’re flawless, you’re infinite, you’re real, how are you real,” and Sherlock runs the bridge of his nose against John’s thrumming pulse: “How are you mine?”

And if John hadn’t been on the brink, teetering at the precipice before, this would have sent him over, this would have caused the break that sends him surging up, that sends John pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s parted lips and kissing him with everything he is, everything he knows, and only the barest hint of what he feels because there’s too much, it’s too big to fit in just that gesture, in that small expanse of flesh in the time they can take before they both shudder, one after the other and spill hot, desperate between and within and it’s half panting when their mouths meet, half the ever-doomed attempt to convey what it is that pumps in their veins, what it is that they share, so complex and yet simple, so natural and yet so profound, so unprecedented, so, so—

“Endless,” Sherlock tongues into John’s mouth as their chests crash, as they shiver through the descent. “Endless and uncharted and perfect and always, John, never-ceasing. Life and death itself and all that overcomes them, is this,” and Sherlock joins their hands between the hard throb of their hearts pressed close. “Always.”

John clutches Sherlock’s hand, squeezes back and breathes, breathes and oh, but the feel of that hand in his is a homecoming, is a blessing from the universe itself, and yes, oh god, yes.

Always.


	19. More Than The World’s Meant to Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way that Sherlock’s stare pierces him straight through should hurt almost, by rights; instead it shivers, quakes in John’s rising pulse as he comes back to wakefulness, as he basks in that aqua glow trained just on him as if he’s a puzzle, as if he makes no sense and yet brings sense, as if he’s impossible and important, and impossibly important and his chest feels tight as he squeezes his eyes shut once more against their stinging because there has been too much sorrow, too many tears, and yes, John knows there will be more but not here, not for this.
> 
> This is perfect, without weeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more after this—an epilogue of sorts. I might be the only one, but I am so going to miss this story. My continued adoration to [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) for her support and her beta-brilliance. 
> 
> And as always, to all of you <3

Waking is different, John realises, as the air shifts and his jaw unclenches; his eyes unstick. Waking is different, as he breathes in deep and relishes the latent ache in his muscles, pleasant; as he registers the heat near him, surrounding: far too warm for just himself.

As he feels the press, metaphysical and all-consuming, of that gaze, that mind, that incomprehensible heart focused solely, weighing upon him: remarkable, unbearable—just this side of bliss.

John opens his eyes.

The way that Sherlock’s stare pierces him straight through should hurt almost, by rights; instead it shivers, quakes in John’s rising pulse as he comes back to wakefulness, as he basks in that aqua glow trained just on him as if he’s a puzzle, as if he makes no sense and yet brings sense, as if he’s impossible and important, and impossibly important and his chest feels tight as he squeezes his eyes shut once more against their stinging because there has been too much sorrow, too many tears, and yes, John knows there will be more but not here, not for this.

This is perfect, without weeping. 

So John settles himself behind his closed lids for a moment, beneath those warm eyes, and rolls just so into the pillow where Sherlock had been sleeping, a teasing touch between their bodies in the now but only just, because touching might be too much, just yet: touching might break him.

The linens smell of Sherlock’s skin, once more, and John breathes in, shaky.

This, John believes, is perfect, despite the weeping.

When Sherlock’s fingers come to card through John’s hair, it’s as if that wide palm was made to leach the fear from John’s body, to take the dread and the pain and dull it, ease it all so that he’s boneless, weightless, and the rhythm of Sherlock’s touch bleeds into his heartbeat and makes it strong, soothing in the centre of John’s own chest, and he can’t deny that he leans into Sherlock’s touch, he won’t pretend it’s not a lifeline and a second chance at life held small and close and incomprehensible where it rests between them, whole.

John keeps his eyes closed as Sherlock strokes against the nape of his neck, the curve of his skull, he allows himself to feel cradled, kept, cherished, and he knows because he knows his lover, knows the heart he chose: John knows he is only privileged with this warmth because he is loved just as deep, held just as dear, needed just as much.

He breathes out, slow, and if feels like the worst parts of the world, the dregs of existence go with it even before he hears the words; soft, but steady: 

“Marry me.”

John opens his eyes. The gaze that arrests him, the eyes that see into him steal his breath, and John could swear, he would _swear it_ as he swallows hard against the intensity there, the meaning, the hope that wrestled down the fear—

John swears they’ve never looked so blue. 

“There are declarations,” Sherlock exhales, somehow melds hesitation with a certainty John can’t quite fathom. “There are gaps to be filled and words to be said and promises to be made, I know, and I will say them, John,” and Sherlock takes his hands, now, cups them wide between his palms and presses, wills them into one. “I will make each and every one of them until there is no space for doubt but for the fullness of them. But later,” and Sherlock draws close, now, tucks his head beneath John’s chin. 

“Later,” he murmurs against the skin of John’s neck. “Because you are warm, John, you are breathing and your skin raises gooseflesh against my hands and I haven’t wanted to laugh and sob so strongly in so long I fear it might shatter something vital down the centre of me if I try,” and John can hear it, the tremble of too much in Sherlock’s voice, in his lips as he presses close to John flesh and breathes:

“I can feel the beat of your blood if I’m very still, if I shut out the rush of my own and take you in entirely, only you.”

John shudders, and something in him rises, exalts it the existence of all things as he reaches, as he clutches Sherlock to his body and vows silent to the cosmos to never let him go.

“I’d do it right when it was over, once it was done, that’s what I told you,” Sherlock tells him, and in a rush John remembers, recalls that night in that horrid place, that dank hovel, as he’d stitched Sherlock’s wounds and mourned losses. He remembers the still-fevered mumblings that had caught in his pulse and persisted, stuck in his veins because he’d wanted so badly where he hadn’t dared to want, and John’s dumbstruck, John’s overjoyed, John is—

“I said I’d do it right and John, I need you,” Sherlock cranes his neck and meets John’s eyes again, and they’re over-bright, overfull: “It’s never felt more right.”

Sherlock’s fingertips dance at the hollow of John’s throat as John reminds himself to breathe, as his heart trips over itself, sprints to be heard for all the _yes, yes, oh god, more yes than the world’s meant to stand_ rising fierce in him, bubbling forth and gathering in his throat and he knows Sherlock can feel it, the racing of his pulse and John can read the feelings that flicker across Sherlock’s face, that swell and recede so rapidly in those eyes: the terror, that maybe he’s wrong; the wonder, that they’re here; the longing, because this has always been for never being and they’re as close, as tied as atoms allow, but in the end there’s only one thing, and John counts it a triumph because for all the fear and doubt and hurt, the last thing, the final thing that settles and stays in Sherlock’s gaze is an infinite, heartfelt, foolish-frantic hope.

John’s throat's too thick to speak, to settle the lingering fears in his lover with words, but that doesn’t matter. His heart’s pounding so hard in his chest that it hurts but that’s nothing, that’s absolutely nothing.

John leans in and captures Sherlock’s mouth with a force he didn’t know he possessed, with a devotion he’s felt for so long but never before understood how to convey. His tongue parts those plush, willing lips and John grasps for Sherlock’s wrist, grips his hand it holds it, clasps it safe between the two of them and John can feel the resonance of Sherlock’s body, his very being, and he knows that words aren’t necessary, that any answer made of words would have sold this thing short, because Sherlock’s chest against his chest is a vow within itself, and the rub of roughness at their cheeks is paved with tears that have no single owner; Sherlock’s gasp against John’s teeth tastes of countryside and honey, and Sherlock’s hand is pressed against the beating beneath John’s ribs and for all the _yes_ within him, John is certain Sherlock knows.

Because _this_ , John believes with the whole of him, with all his heart, is _perfection_.

Tears and all.

____________________________________________

Of everyone, they both know Mrs. Hudson will bear the brunt of the shock. They agree that John should go down to her first, so he can soften the blow.

As it turns out, Mrs. Hudson barely blinks when John sits carefully at her kitchen table; she sips her tea just as John takes a breath, hoping the right words come out to explain.

“I’m not deaf, John,” she cuts him off before he can start, shooting him a sad smile over the lip of her cup. John feels his eyes widen as his mouth gapes a bit, open jaw working around the words, around what they imply.

“And I know you well enough to know there’s only one person in the world you’d be with,” she grins a bit, knowing, and dips her head indulgently: “quite like _that_.”

Well. Shit.

“And he’s got a very particular voice, doesn’t he?” she asks, frowning at her drink and topping off the cup again from the kettle at her elbow. “I didn’t know what to think, honestly,” she continues, and here she refuses to meet John’s gaze, here her voice gets a bit thick and she stares very intently at the weak tea she’s stirring, at the steam still rising. “I couldn’t believe it until I heard him, well.” She sniffs, and John thinks that if the guilt that sears in his gut isn’t enough, then the embarrassment should go a long way towards evening things out. 

“I expect you knew?”

John blinks, owlish. “I’m sorry?”

Mrs. Hudson pins him with a stern look and a sour purse of her lips. “Young man, give me some credit,” she scolds, “You’d not have taken him straight back into your bed if it’d be quite such a shock.”

Well. Shit.

“Now, where is that mad boy?” Mrs. Hudson finally spares him, her expression tight, lips thin.

“Just here.” And Sherlock appears from behind John without prelude, and John’s missed that. God, he’s missed that, and as Mrs. Hudson embraces Sherlock, shaking just a bit as she bows her head into his chest, sobbing quietly, John can nearly feel the world righting itself, just a little. Shifting back to normal gravity, standard time.

“Oh, you!” Mrs. Hudson pulls back in anger, smacks Sherlock’s arm half-heartedly as she hiccoughs around her tears before moving to hold him close once more. “You fooled us all rather terribly, didn’t you?”

“Quite cruelly, yes,” Sherlock agrees, holds her to him all the tighter. “I wish there’d been another way.”

John’s chest tightens for an instant as he second-guesses it all once again, but then his eyes drift and he meets Sherlock’s gaze over their landlady’s head, stops dead in his tracks. 

Those eyes don’t condemn him. Those eyes don’t blame him as he’s blamed himself. Those eyes see him, and embrace him, and love him.

Those eyes are _alive_ , in spite of everything. 

John breathes.

“Yes,” he hears Mrs. Hudson saying, ruefully, as she cups Sherlock’s face in her hands. “John knew. No evidence of a fresh knuckle-punch on these cheeks.”

John snorts. Maybe.

“Not that you don’t deserve one!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims as she slaps Sherlock’s upper arm again before drawing him in for yet another hug, visibly overwhelmed, and Sherlock lets her, holds her, waits until she pulls away and only keeps her at arm’s length, even then, because John knows, John can tell he needs to see her, needs to know she’s there and whole just as much.

“Play tonight, will you?” she asks, once they’re both satisfied, once they’ve let go. “I’ve missed your violin.”

The smile that lights Sherlock’s face is something that lightens John’s own heart as soon as he sees it. “Absolutely,” Sherlock promises. “Any requests?”

Mts. Hudson wipes her eyes once more and smiles, just a little wobbly. “Something soft. Pleasant.” Her eye flit to John as she adds: “Joyful.”

Joyful. Yes.

Sherlock nods, glows with it. “I know just the thing.”

____________________________________________

Sherlock’s said it for years: Mycroft needs to increase the security on his room at the Diogenes. 

He’s beginning to suspect, however, that Mycroft’s never really been aiming to keep his brother out.

“You’re looking better,” the elder Holmes observes as he folds his newspaper and steeples his fingers and yes. Sherlock learned that pose a long time ago.

“I,” Sherlock licks his lips, feels suddenly very young. Very small. “I feel it.”

Sherlock glances at Mycroft, who’s studying Sherlock almost leisurely and looking lighter, freer than Sherlock’s known him in far too long. Sherlock, for his part, takes in Mycroft from head to foot, measures the pace and labour of his breathing and remembers the night before, remembers stumbling through his brother’s door and watching the colour drain from Mycroft’s face as he grasped at him, breathless and hysterical, terrified that London was a mirage and everything was a trick of his own mind —and Mycroft had steadied him, had served his purpose as a fluctuating constant as he drew Sherlock’s hand down the puckered scar at his chest: _Deduce, brother. What can you see?_ and had promised John’s living presence, still _his_ , housed safe in the flat that was still _theirs_ , and—

“Thank you,” Sherlock rasps, because Mycroft was, is; Mycroft is...

“Thank you for,” and Sherlock can’t find the terms, the way to describe this rediscovery, so much remodelling, this new landscape of brightness and fullness and promise and light not held merely in a corner, through the cracks, but pervasive, all encompassing, almost too bright. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Mycroft saves him, and Sherlock, for reasons inexplicable, feels the phantom sensation of a large, warm grasp encompassing a hand far small than his own. “Thank you for,” Mycroft swallows hard, leans forward in his chair; “For fighting. For being here to say it at all.”

Silence settles for a moment, and neither brother can meet the other’s eyes.

“I asked him,” Sherlock says, apropos of nothing; of everything. 

“I know,” and it comes out of Mycroft’s mouth with a genuine smile, without a hint of omnipotence or smugness, no trace of the power-play. “Felicitations, petit frère.”

And that; _that_ comes out with the kind of affection, the kind of warmth he’d so long forgotten could be attached to those eyes, that voice, this man who he’d once believed hung the moon and painted the stars, drew sense inside the infinite unknown and held potential in the palm of his hand.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a young corner of Sherlock’s heart that still believes it, still needs to hold that dear.

Sherlock doesn’t quite know that he’s trembling until he feels a hand on his shoulder, sees that Mycroft’s crossed the room to him, and he doesn’t know whether to shake his brother’s hand or cling to him like a child and so he simply gives, simply moulds to the touch and Mycroft draws him in and Sherlock feels oddly cared for, strangely safe.

Breathing, when he does it, takes effort around the pressure of feeling where it gathers in his throat.

“I’ve only ever wanted your happiness,” Mycroft exhales, heavy and rough. “You deserve this, Sherlock. You deserve every moment of joy you will give to one another,” and Sherlock nods, because he hopes there will be joy, he hopes he can give John the love he deserves, something even remotely fitting in return for the way John makes the whole of being shine fluorescent, filled with wonder by simply existing, just from the beating of his heart.

“I believe that more than I believe in anything,” Mycroft says, grounds him again as he pulls back and meets his eyes. “My greatest hope is that you will come to believe it, too. In time.”

Mycroft stands still, lessens his hold so that it’s just the hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but it’s comforting where it’s never been before, and Sherlock thinks he remembers, now, what it was like to have a brother who was just a brother. Not a keeper or a trial or an obstacle or a judge.

Just family. Perhaps even a friend.

“Tea?” Mycroft asks, and there’s a upward lilt to the question that’s not usually there; hopeful, almost. Sherlock never stays for tea. Mycroft had long ceased asking. 

Something warm settles in Sherlock’s stomach, though, and he takes a seat, holds Mycroft’s gaze but says nothing; makes himself comfortable.

His brother knows quite well how he likes his tea.

____________________________________________

It’s been long enough that Greg’s no longer accustomed to intruders in his home before he leaves for work.

He sees the cup on his countertop before he hears the floorboards creak.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he breathes out as he springs toward the noise with a butter knife in his fist.

“Cinnamon dolce macchiato,” Sherlock enunciates, taking everything in about the DI, following the descent of the cutlery as drops from his grip and clangs to the floor: “Hold the whip.”

Greg’s not sure what to do, really, with the looming spectre in the coat with the turned up collar—posh git—but he’s pretty solid on the coffee bit, so he drinks, and tries not to dwell on how, well, kind of nice it feels to be deduced by that giant brain again. 

He’s waiting for Sherlock to comment on the two—yes, alright, _failed_ —attempts at reconciling with the wife when the silence stretches out too far. Greg clears his throats and ventures. 

“I figured it out, you know.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, and it says more than that sharp tongue ever could.

“I suspected, well,” Greg recoups, doesn’t mention the flowers, or the first macchiato—they both know enough to be going on with, s’far as that goes. “I’d hoped you were,” and he doesn’t quite know how to phrase it: _not rotting underground, fucking us all around rather heartlessly, living secretly as a martyr in Aberdeen, being a big goddamned hero in the shadows_ —something like that.

“But no,” Greg picks up, shakes his head as Sherlock simply stares. “I meant, why you did it.”

Sherlock’s eyes grow rounder for just a moment; his lips twitch. He averts his gaze.

“I couldn’t believe it at first, but, you know,” Greg shrugs. “Some wanker used to say that once you’ve eliminated the impossible,” Greg smirks, chuckles dryly, edged with mania because it’s all starting to sink in and he’s got to swallow it down, and fast. 

“And well, the evidence doesn’t lie.” That fucking phone, if he’s honest, once they’d listened: that phone had left Greg in a dark fucking place for much longer than he’d ever admit to.

The quiet gets too much again, and the frenetic buzzing in Greg’s ears is starting to grow deafening, and he knows he’s stalling, but he has to give voice to what’s lodged in his throat, and soon, else it might damn well choke him.

“I just,” he swallows hard; “I want to say thanks.” He forces himself to look Sherlock square-on. “I know it wasn’t only for me, but,” he blinks, clears his throat, and gives himself leave to look away as he says it, the important bit, because he’s not the kind of man for the softer things, never had been.

“I’d have probably taken a swan dive just the same if the tables were turned, yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod, but Greg can hear the way Sherlock’s throat works around the telling lack of a response, and it’s enough.

More than.

“Remember that,” Greg says gruffly as he moves to clap Sherlock on the shoulder and the man’s solid, the man’s goddamn _there_ , and of course, of fucking course.

It’s for the best, really. Greg’s got a boatload of open cases that are driving him mad.

____________________________________________

They reach the manor past midday; they let themselves in and call for Mummy, but the front rooms are empty. It’s a temperate afternoon, however: Sherlock takes to the east garden while John heads out toward the terrace.

“John,” Leonore stands just as he crosses the threshold, stops in her tracks halfway to the door. John can see the needlepoint she left behind on the settee, watches the way she wrings her hands together and searches for clues in his face, in his stance, in the empty space beyond John’s shoulder.

He can’t even say her name, can’t greet her with unbridled warmth and tell her it’s fine, it’s all so very much better than _fine_ , before her hands are braced against his forearms, her grip lethal, shaking.

“Don’t,” she pleads, and her voice is so deep, so rough, and John feels horrible, because he’d shunned everyone, he’d left her to grieve the unknown alone and it was wrong, it was very, very wrong. “Please, John, don’t toy with—”

“Mummy.”

They both turn when that glorious baritone rings out, all silk and the first hints of sunrise, and John exhales just as Leonore gasps, just as she squeezes against John’s arms before letting go, before moving around John into the open arms of her youngest, back from the grave.

“Oh god,” she gasps, the tears already falling from her eyes as she pulls Sherlock close. “My darling, oh, my baby boy,” and she peppers kisses over Sherlock’s face, running her hands frantically down his sides as he holds her steady, as he lets her sob. “You’re safe, thank god,” she looks at him, holds his face between her hands and stares at him long, hard, eyes streaming: “You’re safe.”

“I’m safe,” he whispers, covering her hands with his own. “I’m sorry I had to go.”

Leonore shakes her head, breathes in shakily. “You did what was necessary,” she pats her son’s chest and looks at him meaningfully; “to protect the heart you hold.”

Sherlock’s own gaze trails to John, and there are no words, really. Not for this.

“Even for all the worry, my love,” Mummy says softly as she leans into Sherlock’s embrace: “never apologise for that.”

John’s eyes well, despite his efforts, because as Sherlock’s mother holds him tight, Sherlock only stares at John with the kind of open, unfettered feeling that John thinks might burn a man for the fire of it, drown him for the depth of it, but John does nothing but revel in it, does nothing but stare back: throws all the heart he has into the gaze.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” he hears Leonore murmur into Sherlock’s shoulder and John turns, smiles at his lover and takes his leave of mother and son, walks to the kitchen and puts on the kettle, takes three mugs out of the cupboard and grins to himself, because one of them’s for Sherlock, and it’s not pitiful anymore.

Sherlock will drink tea again. Drink _his_ tea.

“You brought my son back to me,” John jumps a bit when he hears Leonore speak from the doorway, just as the water starts to warm. “You’ve made our family whole, John.”

And somehow, beyond John’s comprehension, it is clear, it is absolutely _known_ that the ‘our’ she’s speaking of includes him, not as a matter of course but as a given, a necessity.

“No,” John shakes his head. “He brought himself back. To all of us.”

“For you,” Mummy counters. “Across heaven and earth, John. Through hell.” She approaches him, takes his hands firmly, but gently between her own. “ _Thank you_.”

And John pulls her into an embrace of his own just as Sherlock comes in, lingers in on the threshold and takes in the sight before him, and he brightens, he looks full to bursting, his smile so honest and stretched from the heart of him that John can barely stand seeing it and not touching his lover, not tasting that joy on his lips.

“No,” John whispers to the mother of the best part of John’s life, the woman who brought his everything into the world. “For him,” and John looks at Sherlock, makes sure that he knows. “For the very fact of him. Thank _you_.”

And Sherlock: he looks right back, and oh, the joy’s contagious. 

John’s rarely felt so warm.

____________________________________________

It takes Sherlock the better part of an hour to tune it; it’s been a long while since he’s had occasion to play, that’s a part of it. 

The other part, John admits, likely has something to do with the fit of his own mouth against Sherlock’s neck, vying with the chinrest for that supple skin, and if anyone’s asking, John thinks the lilting, manic giggles that escape Sherlock’s lips and die off into moans are their own sort of symphonies.

Much as he loves Sherlock’s violin, John will take the laughter, he’ll take those dignified shreds of swallowed ecstasy any day.

Once the bow starts upon the strings, however, John’s enraptured as he often is, often was: often will be, and it’s gorgeous, as usual; joyful, just like he’d promised.

“Boccherini,” Sherlock grins downward from the tailpiece, eyes closed as he plays, but John feels the heat of his it straight on.

And as the piece swells and lulls, as Sherlock moves with the music; as he follows the notes that Sherlock plays, John has the sudden realisation that he’s watching not just his flatmate, not just the love of his life, but the man he’s going to spend the rest of his days beside: John realises he will be able to watch this marvel, this insane wonder of the world—he will be able to hold him and breathe him and share his warmth, his daring, his absolute failures and his soaring hopes. John realises that the future, suddenly, grew bright again.

It hits him, suddenly, all over again: they made it. Their mad plan against all odds somehow shirked in by the skin of its teeth and they’d survived. They’d all survived.

John’s heart slams painfully against his ribs as it sinks in, fresh somehow, heavy and new because Sherlock is here, Sherlock is _here_ , and John hadn’t dared to hope for it, couldn’t bear to accept on anything less. 

He knows it’s not the end of anything, save this one lethal heartbreak, but that’s enough—more than. And John can’t help himself, he can’t stop himself when he crosses the room mid-movement and steals Sherlock from the music, because the years will pass and they’ll earn wrinkles and they’ll name more grey hairs after one another and there will be music, there will always be music.

There will always be Sherlock, and music, and John doesn’t need anything else.

His mouth finds Sherlock’s and despite the murmur of surprise, John knows that, in this moment, Sherlock prefers their music to his violin, as he sets the instrument aside and cradles John with an even greater care, a love somehow vaster, more infinite. 

Sherlock tastes of salt, and rainwater, and tealeaves; John thinks: forever. Sherlock’s lips, Sherlock’s hands on his waist, the hum of Sherlock, so content against his chest. He’ll have this forever.

And if the concert’s cut short, well. 

Mrs. Hudson will understand.


	20. Postlude: Every Indescribable Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the important thing—the _important_ thing is that at the age of forty-one, John Hamish Watson believes beyond all possibility for doubt that broken hearts will mend and soar and race and thrive once the clouds part, once the sky clears, so long as those hearts are held dearer than the fear of death, so long as the love is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, finally, we've reached the end. This scene was one of the handful that shaped this story from the beginning: a beginning which grew rather quickly into something far longer and more expansive my initial plans and expectations had mapped out. The fact that so many of you have seemed to enjoy it along with me has been such a beautiful surprise, and so incredibly rewarding, truly—I cannot thank you enough: every one of you who has commented, left kudos, read even a paragraph, whether you loved it or hated it or somewhere in between: _thank you_. You're all incredible.
> 
> As always, my thanks and affection to [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair), without whom this story would be...less. So much less. You are a marvel, and I am ever-so-fucking grateful for you.
> 
> A Brief Aside: While this story is now finished, there are a handful of ideas that it just couldn't fit: I don't know whether they'll make an appearance at some point or not, but if they ever _do_ pop off my hard drive, they'll likely show up **[here](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com)** first, if you're interested.
> 
> Until later, lovelies. And thank you, again <3

Mycroft’s standing—not pacing, leaning almost casually, almost content against the windowsill—when John walks the now-familiar path to his chambers at the Diogenes; he’s standing, and the morning light’s playing off his features in a way that makes him look younger, at a certain kind of ease that loosens the tension in John’s own chest, the last of it, because, for all that has happened, despite _everything_ , John’s come to worry over Mycroft Holmes, come to love like the best, most maddening of any family John’s ever likely to get.

John swallows a smile as Mycroft turns to him, gives it up when an uncommon quirk of lips takes over Mycroft’s own face, brightens him.

“Congratulations are in order, Doctor,” Mycroft tells him, and the words are more warm than John thinks he deserves, but nothing compared to what floods him, fills him when he realises that yes, _yes_ , congratulations most definitely _are_ in order, because John’s, they’re, it’s—

“I assume that’s the purpose behind such an early visit, given the infinitely preferable company back home?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow that’s almost playful, and it’s so absurd that it has to be, it can’t possibly be anything less than real.

This is very, very real.

“Brother-in-law-to-be would be more appropriate, surely?” John returns, a hint of snark in the works, and Mycroft’s lips turn up all the stronger. “Of course I knew he’d already told you.” John knows where Sherlock went the other morning; John knows something’s changing, has already changed—between the brothers, between these two men. 

And Mycroft doesn’t ask if John wants tea, takes the liberty of pouring him a cup and handing it to him without fanfare, and that, maybe, found alongside the smile and the warmth, is what settles the slight apprehension John had been wrestling with—had been twisted a bit off-kilter over at the actual reason he was here; maybe it’s the cup of tea brewed just right, not so much from security footage and intelligence notes as late nights and frayed nerves at the worst of times, together: that, John thinks, is what sets him at ease. That is what convinces John beyond all shadow of a doubt that he was family before any questions were asked, before any offers of forever were accepted from the man who holds and keeps his heart.

“I have to admit,” Mycroft starts as he settles into his chair, “I was rather overjoyed, when he told me he’d asked you, made it official.” He sips, and John sits as well, and it’s comfortable, it’s comfortable sitting with Mycroft here, in this room that’s seen so much: this room where he’s felt both intimidated and awkward, furious and frightened, hopeless and hateful and broken but not alone: he hasn’t been alone for quite some time, now, and it’s still a bit unbelievable, too good to be true, except that it is.

“He’s a trial, John,” Mycroft leads in, “but my brother has grown into one of the best men I know.” And John can’t help a grin at that, because yes. Sherlock Holmes is a great and good man, and John knows that any world outside of him will forever fall short of meaning a goddamned thing.

“It’s only fitting,” Mycroft continues, and John looks up, meets his eyes and reads the solemnity, the earnest truth in them, “that he be joined to another of those men,” Mycroft inclines his head indicatively, and John feels something heady at the sincerity, the honest belief that it’s true: “The very best.”

John coughs, does his best to bite down a denial, or a stammer, because he’s never done this, and it’s a hell of a compliment to get, isn’t it, one hell of an endorsement from a Holmes, and John thinks maybe, just maybe, Mycroft won’t be offended, or think it beneath him, and Sherlock had promised that his brother would be gobsmacked, but ultimately pleased and John trusts Sherlock above all things, and fuck all, he trusts Mycroft, too.

So he clears his throat and goes for broke.

“Funny you should say that,” John says lightly, but doesn’t meet Mycroft’s gaze. “Because, you know, that’s the reason I’m here, actually, despite my ‘infinitely preferable company’ elsewhere.”

Mycroft looks at him curiously over the lip of his cup.

“Right,” John nodes brusquely, sets his tea down to clasp his hands with a certain finality, a certain sense of grounding himself, of keeping his fingers from twitching, from betraying what it takes, despite all reassurances, to ask something so commonplace, so mundane, so _significant_ of someone like Mycroft Holmes—a Mycroft Holmes who’s looking at him with a certain degree of befuddlement that John can only think is the man’s trademark paradox of fond disdain, regardless of what’s been shared, what’s been built. 

“So,” John forces out slowly, carefully. “Will you?”

Mycroft is silent for too many moments, and John’s just about to take it all back and play dumb, regardless of what Sherlock’s told him, what Sherlock predicted of his brother in response. John’s ready to chuck it all as a failed experiment, one step too far, when Mycroft’s forehead wrinkles and his lips pinch and he looks, once John takes a moment to really observe it; he looks, for all intents and purposes, just this side of embarrassed.

“I’m afraid I,” Mycroft swallows visibly. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

John hadn’t realised the tap of his pulse was being so damned insistent until the fight goes out of it, until  the words sink in and he understands that the man across from him’s not rejecting anything before it’s asked, isn’t judging him, that everything John dared to believe of this new and impossible and utterly brilliant family that has somehow, inexplicably come to be his—it isn’t false, isn’t fake, isn’t hollow.

John smiles, and takes another sip of tea.

“Is that a first, Mycroft Holmes?” he asks playfully, and is rewarded when Mycroft doesn’t look offended, doesn’t miss the humour, the good-natured jibe and simply rolls his eyes, smiles a bit tenuously, and waits, rather pointedly, for John to come to his point.

“The best of men,” John backtracks, tries to explain his own convoluted logic, his own slightly-nervous tongue. “When two blokes tie the knot, I assume there’s two of them,” John swallows and looks up, then, tries to file away Mycroft’s look of confusion transitioning to disbelief, rare creature that it is: “Y’know. Best Men.”

“If you’re asking me—”

John scoffs. “Obviously.”

Mycroft waits a beat, waits two, before he responds.

“Should I be concerned about my brother, that he’s not here to make the inquiry himself?” Mycroft asks, too many layers to his tone. “Or has he already managed to work himself into a strop, just seventy-two hours fresh from the grave?”

And John just shakes his head, because of course Mycroft doesn’t get it, of course, because if John’s learned something about the Mycroft Holmes behind the mask over these months, these years, it’s that Mycroft—much like his brother—doesn’t despise sentiment so much as he fears it, feels too deeply instead of too little: can’t quite fathom being genuinely valued and cared for and trusted in the long-term for much beyond his intellect, his influence, his pull with the powers that be.

Idiot. Clearly it runs in the family.

“Shockingly, no on both accounts,” John answers the question, soothes the subtle hint of concern evident in Mycroft’s words. “He’s doing well enough, considering, and he’s in higher spirits than I think I’ve ever seen him.”

And yes, John knows he’s practically glowing with the truth of that, with the fact that he knows, _knows_ he’s a good portion of the reason for that light in his lover’s eyes, the ease in the set of his shoulders, the way his pulse thrums low and strong and pleased, almost content beneath John’s ear when they settle on the sofa, in their bed.

“He’s not here,” John clarifies with a grin and a shake of his head, “because it’s not his question to ask.”

John has a glimpse, just then, of what Mycroft must have looked like as a child, when the world shifted and paradigms formed and he simply couldn’t grasp it, not just yet: he’s dumbfounded when the answer’s in front of him, when the facts are plain to see. Eliminate the impossible, and then—

“I’m asking you, Mycroft,” John spares him with a smile, “if you’ll be _my_ Best Man.”

Had Mycroft’s jaw dropped any wider, or stayed open more than half-a-second, he may have resembled a fish out of water. As it happens, he just misses the mark, and recovers swiftly.

Pity.

“I have to tell you, though he’ll have my balls for it,” John confides, drinks his tea down to half-a-cup, “that he’s more than a bit put out at the way it all shook down,” and John takes a moment to grin at the widening of Mycroft’s eyes in ever-growing disbelief. “See, we knew it’d be you and Greg, of course, but who’d get whom? And, well, Sherlock thought he’d do the gentlemanly thing and give me first pick of the two.”

Again, had those lips not been pressed shut by now, Mycroft would be gaping.

“The look on his face when I said I’d take you,” John shakes his head ruefully, digs his fingers into the plush upholstery on the arms of the chair. “Well, no offence to Greg, of course, but I don’t think your brother’s going to be going the magnanimous route again any time soon.”

“I think it might kill him a little, though, if you neglected him the whole way through,” John adds, because he’d seen the genuine disappointment in his partner’s eyes, the little tinge of sadness, and while Sherlock had flat out refused to swap choices, in the end, John really does want nothing more in life than to keep his lover from as many hurts, as much heartbreak as he possibly can. “I tried to convince him you wouldn’t, but, you know, maybe the stag party? You and Greg could swap grooms to be responsible for?”

And John’s grown fairly comfortable with that blank Holmesian stare that blankets over the kind of racing cognition that spans the cosmos, but still: Mycroft’s silent blinking is beginning to weigh on him, is starting to twist his stomach and shift his weight in his seat..

“You’re staring,” John’s speaking before he runs it through his head. “It’s a bit unnerving, you know.”

A blink. Another. “Apologies.”

The tone it’s said in is soft, comes from far away.

“Should I take that as a no, then?” John finally asks, makes sure to do everything he can possibly do to mask any disappointment, any dejection in his face or his tone. “It’s absolutely understandable if you’d rather be Sherlock’s Best Man, honestly, he’s not asked Greg yet, so it’s no trouble—”

“That’s not it,” Mycroft responds, the words flat and final and true, but John barely hears them.

“Because it’s fine, honestly, you can say no—” John starts, but it’s like the flip of a switch: Mycroft’s head turns, tilts just a fraction and he stares at John with something unidentifiable in his gaze, something nameless save that John knows it’s good.

“Yes,” Mycroft says, his voice a bit dry, a bit thin. “I’d be,” and he clears his throat, looks away for a moment; “honoured, really,” and it might be the lighting that gives colour to Mycroft’s complexion: John’s not banking on so many miracles in seventy-two hours to call the skin of him flushed.

“I’d be honoured, John.”

It takes a few long moments, a few deep breaths for it to settle in. Mycroft’s face, though, the way his expression stretches into a bona fide smile: that helps speed the process, indeed.

“You’d,” John stammers a bit before finding his bearings. “Right. Great.” He grins back, full force. “Brilliant.”

Mycroft’s still smiling, and it is. It absolutely is.

“Are you thinking a small, private affair, or,” Mycroft leads, but John just shakes his head.

“Honestly, we haven’t even got that far.” Honestly, John could care less either way, because he’s got Sherlock.

He’s got Sherlock, and the rest can generally rot as long as that remains true.

“The importance of ritual,” Mycroft nods, and John’s not sure if that’s quite it, or part of it, or all of it; he just knows that the idea of marrying Sherlock feels right. 

“It’s not as if you need a formal welcome, after all,” Mycroft continues. “You’ve been family for some time, now.” 

There’s a tightness in John’s throat at that, but the pull of it is sweet, somehow; doesn’t threaten to tear.

“I wish the two of you every happiness conceivable,” Mycroft tacks on in an undertone filled with nothing short of real feeling: “I mean that.”

And John believes he does. Wholeheartedly.

“Save it for the speech,” John answers with a grin, because he’s happy, and he finishes the lukewarm tea that’s left in his cup because the joy in him is somehow warm enough, and it’s wonderful, really. It’s beyond all logic and reason and asking and whatever is deserved by a mortal man; by John Watson, who has been so many things that never fit until this one thing, this one role that finally made sense.

Because here and now, in the forty-first year of John Watson’s life, he’s learned that even the most death-defying magic trick, even the most pulse-pounding and heart-wrenching impossible-but- _possible_ sleight of hand: even _this_ , where there was so much death but much more _life_ and thank god, thank _god_ —John knows that none of it could ever compare to the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers laced with his own; Sherlock’s lips on his skin and his weight in John’s arms.

And besides: there’s no need for tricks, now. There’s no longer any call for deception or distance or the kind of sacrifice that aches in the corners, the centre of John’s chest just thinking about what it cost, what it _could have cost_, and just remembering makes John sick with it, the fear, the threat of a loss of air, and green, and wonder for the loss of a sun, for the death of a heart.

There’s no need for it because here, now, in his forty-first year, John Watson finds himself starring in something bigger, something infinitely better than any stage-show, any pantomime or play.

John Watson is co-starring in his own _life_ , beside the other half of his goddamned _soul_. And whether they walk down an aisle or the steps of a courthouse: by god, the privilege of being a partner, a lover, a touchstone and a satellite and a centre of gravity, all at once to  Sherlock Holmes?

That’s the role of a lifetime.

And the important thing—in the moment and for all the moments to come, and isn’t that beautiful, really, a solar flare and a lunar eclipse and the Northern Lights, the strongest sip of tea before the dregs and the warmth of bodies beneath cold sheets; isn’t it wondrous because it’s real and John can taste the blood of it against the backs of his teeth, the sweetness on his tongue and he can see the world alight past dusk because truth is its own kind of magic, flesh beneath fingertips is a marvel in itself, and Sherlock’s chest where it heaves to press, to meet John’s is perfection where the chaos meets the light and John feels weightless, feels solid, knows himself in these moments like a man reborn: the _important_ thing is that at the age of forty-one, John Hamish Watson believes beyond all possibility for doubt that broken hearts will mend and soar and race and thrive once the clouds part, once the sky clears, so long as those hearts are held dearer than the fear of death, so long as the love is enough.

And John’s lucky, John is the luckiest sod in the history of the goddamned world because he loves deeper than black holes and sunspots, and he is loved in kind—beyond all reason—like double helixes, like the building blocks of breath and blood and bone. And the cracks in John’s heart were filled with something better than muscle, something stronger than that treasured striated tissue, and John Watson knows that wholeness has returned and won’t ever leave, is too twined inside his very being to even try, and there is nothing sweeter, nothing better, nothing more than this, all this, just this: every tempted fate and sightless leap and improbable possibility; every sleepless night and breathless prayer, every indescribable joy and ineffable challenge and all the goodness in the universe feared lost and all the shadows loved for the source where they’re cast and every hope, every half-delirious wish on the breeze for the entirety, for the light and the dark, the hard and the soft, the sulking and the press of lips and tongue, for the pain as well as the ecstasy because all of it is precious and sacred and right.

This is everything— _everything_ —and John Watson can breathe again.

At last.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "The Architect of Solitude" by hitlikehammers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077574) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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